| From: | shadowtk@********.demon.co.uk (Paul J. Adam) |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Re: Bar Attack |
| Date: | Sat, 30 Mar 1996 00:30:26 GMT |
singlehanded. I mean, he manages to make *me* look sane sometimes.
FOUR DIE IN BAR MASSACRE
Four men are dead and three more injured, following a vicious battle in a
Redmond bar. Lone Star have identified the victims as local BTL dealers
affilated to a Seoulpa clan, and linked the incident to the recent Everett
warehouse battle. One participant escaped, leaving on a high-powered
motorcycle: his description has been circulated.
"We may have a problem with criminals fighting over dealing turf." said a
police spokesman. "The risk to the law-abiding public, so far, is believed
to be low."
Well, no prizes for guessing who was really behind that one. And since the
bloodhounds of the Law are already on his scent, I don't mind saying now that
Lynch pulled this one off. I'd planned to sit on this one a bit longer, but
turns out the bar owner had the place wired for video and sound, and sold the
footage right away: so since it's gone public, here you go.
+++++begin trideo
A dimly-lit bar, one of almost a standard type: dirty walls, cheap furniture.
Two bored girls in G-strings gyrate tiredly on a central stage, competing with
the Sonics game on the old trideo set by the bar. Barely a dozen customers are
scattered around, all determinedly ignoring each other, focussed on the game,
the girls, or their drinks.
Two men emerge from a back room and walk purposefully to one customer, a tall,
lean human with long, grey-streaked hair. A few moments of conversation, and
the customer follows the two men back towards the door they emerged from.
Despite the poor light, he's wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses.
The view fuzzes to the back room, which is crowded with four other men, two of
them holding shotguns: noise bars crawl down the picture, whoever edited the
tape was clumsy. It takes a few seconds for the sound to cut in, but as the
door opens the customer almost flies through, propelled by a hard shove in the
back. As he tries to regain his balance, the lurkers pounce on him and subdue
his ineffectual struggles, one of them taking a chrome-plated Guardian
automatic from the man's shoulder holster.
"Well, well, look what we caught!" says the leader, a burly Human who is still
brandishing Lynch's pistol. "The great and mighty Jason Lynch. Right into our
trap. You gotta be getting old, Lynch, you think people round here don't still
remember you. And when you asked Joey here about some'a that fancy tortureware
stuff, an' he described the guy wuz asking, an' I remembered how much you're
worth to the Azzies, we set this up real nice."
"So what are you going to do with me?" Lynch seems too calm for someone in his
situation, but then you already know how this story ends.
"Sell you to Aztechnology, a'course! `Cept maybe we'll give you a real up-
close-and-personal look at one of them chips you wuz so innerested in. Joey,
get Mr Lynch here the Overfiend. I think he's gonna looove that one." Joey,
an undernourished teenager in a Maria Mercurial T-shirt, moves to comply.
As his captors laugh, Lynch raises his right leg and stamps hard on the foot
of the Ork holding one of his arms: a combat boot's heel slams into a sneaker
toe with enough force that you hear bone break. The Ork howls and doubles
over, relaxing his grip, and Lynch brings an elbow up into his face: the Ork
falls, his nose an indistinct smear of blood.
The leader brings up the Guardian, then there is a muffled crack and a spray
of crimson: he screams, blood dripping from the ruin of his gun hand.
Lynch, meanwhile, is free of his second captor's embrace, the Dwarf staggering
backwards with his thigh laid open and his throat pumping blood, crashing
into the two shotgunners and spilling them over. One Defiance bounces into
the corner, discharging into the ceiling, and Lynch is able to snatch the
other. Joey is halfway through the door as Lynch smashes the T-250 against it,
hard, and the youth cries out as he is caught between door and frame. The last
two are launching themselves into the attack, one drawing a knife and the other
extending razors.
Lynch drops the broken shotgun and sidesteps, putting the Ork razorboy behind
his friend and out of the fight for a moment. Twisting around the knife's
lunge, he kicks the knifeman in the side of the knee - a sharp crack of bone -
and as the razorboy tries to find a way around his comrade Lynch punches the
knifeman in the side of the head, the spurs dripping wetly as he wrenches them
free: a handblade snaps from his right fist as he moves clear of the corpse.
The razorboy lunges over his friend's corpse, eyes too bright and moves too
jerkily fast, and he doesn't seem to feel the raking slash Lynch inflicts on
his arm: closing to a grapple and trying to get his razors into Lynch's flesh,
the Ork slams him into the wall. Lynch has a hand gripping each of his
assailant's wrists, but the Ork is as strong as Lynch and for an agonised
moment they are a face-to-face tableau, arms out to the sides, both men's
hands bristling with blades but unable to harm each other-
Lynch headbutts the Ork squarely on the nose: the razorguy roars with pain,
but doesn't slacken his grip. Lynch does it again, harder, snapping the Ork's
skull backwards - and then he twists his head to sink his teeth into the
exposed neck. The Ork screams and tries to claw at Lynch as his legs collapse,
but within seconds his voice trails off in a choked gurgle as Lynch springs to
his feet, spitting and wiping at his face. The audio catches a muttered "you
tasted as bad as you smelt!"
Reaching up into the small of his back, he comes out with a stainless steel
revolver, an antique Colt Python, as he walks through the storeroom door and
into the barroom: The view clumsily shifts to the bar, a few seconds early and
out of synch, as you see Joey crawling towards the bar and the bartender
crouching beneath his counter: the girls are huddled behind the stage, most of
the customers have fled. Lynch walks out of the back room towards Joey, and
the bartender pops up with an Uzi in his hands: one shot from the Python takes
off most of the back of his head.
"Okay, Joey, where are the chips?" Lynch hauls the boy to his feet, ignoring a
cry of pain and the way Joey's arm hangs oddly.
"Behind the bar, I'll get them, please, don't kill me, please-"
"Don't do anything stupid, give me what I want and answer my questions, and
you'll be fine."
"Okay. Okay. There's another gun there. I'm not going for it, I swear, but it's
in the box with the chips."
"Good boy, Joey. Let's go."
Joey goes behind the bar, comes out with a plastiboard box claiming to contail
24 bottles of synthetic maraschino cherries in ShugarSirup(TM): he shudders at
the red and grey spatters, courtesy of the bartender, adorning it. Very
carefully, he folds back the lid.
"Smart. Take it out, nice and slow, and put it on the bar." Joey, shaking,
lifts out a LightFire automatic by the trigger guard and places it carefully
next to the box. Lynch picks it up, drops the magazine out, and locks the
slide back, all one-handed, as Joey brings out a flat red plastic case.
"These are all we have. There's about thirty, lots of types. Five of them are
reusables. Is that - NO!"
Joey's cry of terror answers Lynch suddenly bringing up the Python and firing,
as the leader of the group - splashed with blood and holding a shotgun in his
remaining hand - lurches through the door, only to take two .357 Magnums in
the chest and fly back in a sprawl of limbs.
"Come on, get up, Joey, we're short of time. Where do you get these?"
Joey, terrified, rises but stays silent for a moment. "They'll kill me if I
talk.."
Lynch points the Python at his face, thumbs back the hammer. "I'll kill you if
you don't."
"We buy them from Lee. Lee Kuang Soo, he's with the Jade Lotus-"
"Buntaka's clan. I know them. Lie down, Joey, and wait for the cops. They'll be
about ten minutes yet." Joey drops like a puppet with cut strings as Lynch
walks away, picking the fired cases out of the revolver and reloading, only to
pause by the dancers - a dark-haired human girl and an Elf whose platinum-
blonde hair contrasts with her dark skin. Both cower back from the blood-
spattered mercenary as he reaches into his pocket.
"Here." A roll of currency. "Compensation for losing you your
customers." Wide-
eyed with surprise, they wait until he turns away before hurring backstage:
Lynch walks out, calmly tucking the .357 into his belt and lighting a
cigarette, and is lost in the glare of the door.
+++++end trideo download
Now I know Lynch likes to say "skill is making the stupidly dangerous look
easy" but I think maybe he's been pushing himself a little hard recently. Come
on, Jason, ease off and let some friends help, all right? I only do the
reporter bit these days because it's fun. I'm still up for it if you need me.
Please?]<<<<<
-- The Mighty Quinn <23:54:03/03-29-57>
>>>>>[Quinn, right now I'm in deep shit and I'm not asking anyone to join
me.
But anyone who wants to leap in anyway with a cry of "Come on in, the
fertiliser's lovely!" is welcome, and I could use some magical help right
now.
But if you and your sense of humour get out of hand, I'll tell everyone about
that night in Detroit and the time you called the paramedics.]<<<<<
-- Lynch <23:59:01/03-29-57>
>>>>>[You wouldn't! Not that night! You would't defile the memory of that
wonderful night by broadcasting one small, simple, mistake that an
inexperienced girl made.
Actually you would, wouldn't you? You're nearly as mad as I am. At least
Lilith hasn't shown up yet.
All right, I'll try to be good.]<<<<
-- The Mighty Quinn <00:03:01/03-30-57>
