Editing Getting the Band Together (section)

=='''Places'''==
===At The Ugly Ferret Tavern-Chapter One===
[[File:Ugly Ferre exterior West.jpg|300px]][[File:Wrecker-reggy-ugly-ferret.jpg|300px]][[File:Ugly Ferre exterior south1.jpg|300px]]

The duo sat on their stolen Vespas looking at the grungy tavern.  Reggy says, "Good fields of fire. Perches all over.  Not good planning."

Wrecker looks around, "They are a biker gang not strictly speaking a military unit.  They didn't plan on us."

The air inside the bar was thick with smoke and hostility. Neon lights buzzed weakly over stained pool tables, and a jukebox in the corner played a half-hearted country tune. A dozen leather-clad figures turned to watch as Wrecker and Reggy stepped through the door.  Tired looking girls in blank leather sat out of the way, drunk, stoned, or worn out. 

“Welp,” Reggy muttered, glancing at the peeling wallpaper and overturned chairs. “Home sweet home.”  His Broncos football jacket did not make any friends this far east.  Ravens, Jets, Commanders.  Maybe Cowboys for the Cheerleaders. 

“You know, if they ever power-washed this place, the health department might faint,” Wrecker replied with a grin, his voice carrying just loud enough to draw a few glares.

At the bar, Dale Genkins, the VP of the Blind Reapers, leaned back on his stool, his leather vest stretching over his broad shoulders. Beside him, Smiley, the club’s Sergeant-at-Arms, cleaned his nails with a knife that looked sharp enough to gut a deer.  The bartender looked worn and tired, the result of having these criminals claim his bar without so much as a ''If you please''.

From a shadowy corner, Black Carl, a mountain of a man with a dark history, watched with quiet intensity, his dark eyes narrowing as the newcomers approached.

“You boys lost?” Dale asked, his voice calm but loaded with menace. “This ain’t exactly tourist country, Peacock.”

“Nah, we’re right where we need to be.  Its been a long ride.” Wrecker said, swaggering up to the bar as though he owned the place. He slid into a stool and gestured to the bartender. “Two beers. Cold, if that’s a thing here.  Got any pretzels or peanuts?”

Reggy stayed on his feet, leaning casually against the bar and nodding at Smiley. “Nice knife. Compensating for something?”

Smiley’s grin widened, showing off a row of uneven chipped teeth. “Keep talking, string bean. We'll see how funny you are when I carve my initials in your forehead.”

“Smiley, enough,” Dale said, raising a hand. He turned his attention to Wrecker, his eyes scanning him up and down. “You got a lot of nerve walking in here unarmed. Either you’re real stupid, or you’ve got a death wish.”

He shrugs, "Having both has worked for me. What makes you think I unarmed?” Wrecker replied, taking a slow sip of the beer the bartender slid his way. “I see a bottle of Old Crow down there.  Crack that bird and pour two glasses of 6 ounces. Run us a tab."  He pulls a roll of bills and sticks it on its bottom.  The bartender opens it and counts it.  He doesn't wear a cut so he looks to Black Carl who gives a slight nod.  The money disappears and he pours two tall glasses.  Wrecker says, "leave the bottle, Lucky."

Smiley eyeballs Reggy, "What about you, Stretch?  You packing?"

Reggy nods, "Ya, I'm packing, but you'll only see it if we were in prison, princess." Smiley starts moving and Dale puts his hand on his chest.  "I said enough."

"So, something on your mind, such as it is?"

Wreck pours a chug of whiskey into his beer and takes a drink, nodding his head, "We got a proposition.”

Dale chuckled, a low, humorless sound. “Oh, this oughta be good. What’s your pitch, tough guy?”

A young guy with a ''Prospect'' rocker on his cut, asks, "Are those Vespas yours?" Wrecker looks over, nodding, "Ya.  Cool huh?  They're classics. "

Wrecker leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “You boys run this area, right? But I bet the profits could be better. We know how to move goods, no questions asked.  We have a great connection for military arms. And we’ve got a knack for... creative problem solving.”

“Creative problem solving,” Dale repeated, his tone flat. “That what you call sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong?”

Reggy smirked, chiming in. “Hey, we’re just trying to make a buck the American way.  You know, cash businesses and criminality. Maybe add a little... somtha-somtha on the side? No offense, but subtlety doesn’t seem like your strong suit.”

Smiley growled and took a step forward, but Dale held up a hand again, stopping him in his tracks.

“You’re real funny,” Dale said, his expression unreadable. “But we don’t need outsiders meddling in our business.”

“Fair enough,” Wrecker said, finishing his beer in one long gulp. “Just thought we’d offer. Seems a shame to waste all this... potential.”

Reggy grabs his glass and matches his friend.  Smiley stares at him with naked hatred, showing his broken teeth.  Reggy grins, letting his upper and lower Orc canines show. Smiley blinks in uncertainty. 

Wrecker nods at the bikers staring daggers at them. “Yeah, real welcoming crowd. I feel the love.”

Dale stood, towering over Wrecker, and leaned in close. “The only reason you’re walking out of here in one piece is because I don’t feel like mopping up the mess. But don’t mistake that for an invitation to come back.”

“Understood.” Wrecker said, standing and dusting off his jacket as if he’d just finished a casual lunch meeting. He slips a photo over on the bar.

Looking down Dale says, "What are these?" 

Wrecker says, "McMillan TAC-50, Heckler & Koch PSG1, and my personal favorite,the Barrett M82.  We can get these reliably.  We can get as many AR's as you'd need.  Our selection of hand guns are diverse.  Street walker prices for courtesan service.  Pleasure doing business with you.  We'll be around.”

Wrecker and Reggy polish off their beers and whiskey in gulps.  Wrecker looks at the bartender."Don't forget our tab, Lucky."  He grabs the half empty bottle as they leave.

As they walked to the door, Reggy couldn’t resist one last parting shot. “Hey, Smiley—next life, try flossing. Keeps it from scratching johnsons.”

Smiley surged forward with murder in his eyes, but Dale’s bark stopped him cold.

“Let ’em go,” Dale said, watching as the two men strolled out like they hadn’t just walked through the lion’s den.

Reggy turns at the door, looking back in, "Why Smiley, does this mean we're not friends anymore? You know Smiley, if I thought you weren't my friend... I just don't think I could bear it!"  Wrecker chuckles outside. 

From his corner, Black Carl’s eyes followed them to the door, his expression unreadable.  He whispers to a confederate beside him, "Find out who they are.  Call K."

Outside, under the flickering neon sign, Wrecker turned to Reggy with a grin. “That went well.”

“Yeah, if your definition of ‘well’ is not getting stabbed in the spleen,” Reggy replied, shaking his head. 

Wrecker laughs, "I was amazed at Genkins' self control.   ANd I thought Smiley was going to snap!  Johnsons... "

Reggy laughs, "Hey I tried to break him but he was just too tough for me, I guess."  sighing sarcastically, "So, next round’s on you, genius.  Pizza or Sushi?"”

They laughed as they disappeared into the night on their stolen Vespas, the tension of the encounter already fading into the rhythm of their camaraderie.

==='''Gadget Visits the Station'''===

As the weeks went by Eddie and the Stone Bench Band developed their sound. It had gone well after they realized the takers were not around. Eddie wouldn't talk about it, changing the subject if it was brought up. A few thugs wandered by but they didn't bother the buskers in this neck of the plaza. A pair came to the chalk line but shivered and lost their nerve,  tossing their money in the guitar case. One caught Gadgets eye, a street name of Billy, someday known as Billy Sharp. The shadows played tricks. 

Eddie worked out a new schedule for the other buskers, keeping the best time for himself and the group. The others liked the situation fairly well. Players before seemed like warmup acts. The ones afterward got the benefit of the people that started having their lunch in the area.  

Waldo began filling a shopping cart with the group supplies as they went out each day and parking it in the increasingly crowded squat. A month had passed and nerves started getting frayed. Eddie, Tiffy, Jax, Cali, Holden, Gadget and now Waldo filled the space extremely tight. 

Gadget went out on a walk one night, greeting the new dogs. She met with Wrecker and Reggy. 
“How's the Station look now?” 

Reggy say, “Like a shithole covered in industrial waste. Your dogs are creeping me out. But it doesn't smell like rotted cheese, take out, pot, and stale semen. We cleaned out the front room enough to live there. Fixed the plumbing and set up some solar cells. Its pretty messy. You still thinking of burning it down? We have a few ideas about that.  Or are you going to use it?”
 
Gadget ponders for a moment. “It is just about the same distance of a walk from the Station to the plaza as it is from the plaza to the squat, isn't it?” 

Wreck nods, “Close enough” 

“Start cleaning it up. We may have a use for it. Nothing fancy. Clean cantrips and elbow grease. Lets go take a look.” 

Gadget looks across the street at the Station remembering her last time there.  Eliminating the lowest rung of the predatory hierarchy.   The smell of damp concrete, refuse, dogs, and old grease lingered in the air.

Entering the former convenience store she wrinkles her nose.  "Seriously, guys? This place is a biohazard. You’re telling me you’ve been sleeping in here? Without even a basic cleaning spell or... I don’t know, a mop?" 

Wrecker shrugs "What can I say? I’ve got low standards. I lived in a truck cab for years—it smelled better than this, but not by much." 
 
Reggy looks at Gadget, "I’m an orc." 

Gadget looks at him deadpan, gesturing at a pile of broken furniture.  "That explains the piles of ‘decorative garbage.’ What is this? An art installation called ‘Despair in Concrete’? You've been here a month." 

Wrecker: "Hey, don’t knock it. That’s vintage junk. Wart’s crew left it here—it’s practically historical." 

Gadget rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well, history needs a pressure washer. Clean this place up. If we’re going to use it, I want it livable. Like, at least one rung above ‘feral.’" 

Raising his eyebrow, letting his orc canine teeth show, "‘Use it’? Your really thinking of moving your whole band here?  I thought that was a joke." 

"Yeah. The squat’s too crowded " 

Wrecker grins. "I mean, sure. If you’re cool with the charming ambiance of ‘industrial wasteland chic.’" 

Reggy settle on the east sofa casting several Clean cantrips out of courtesy, "We’ve been thinking of getting more than a crash pad anyway." 

"Oh? Elaborate." 

Wrecker says excitedly.  "We’ve been charging up the car—dumping extra power into it.  Its still back in Ang Ri. We think we can use it to anchor something here. At some point we wont be able to disguise ourselves." 

Narrowing her eyes.  "Something? Be specific, Wrecker." 

Reggy grins slyly. "We've got a rough sketch for a place." 

"And by ‘rough sketch,’ you mean...?" 

Wrecker shrugs,  "A few napkins. Bells on the doorknobs. Some runes drawn in oil stains. New graffiti. It’s solid, though. There is a bar we are familiar with.  The Ugly Ferret.  It been invaded by that biker gang.  We tried to make a deal with them but no luck.  They were Wart's suppliers.  They are next, if you approve, on our hit list. " 

Gadget, sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose, "Why am I not surprised? Fine. Clean this place up first. If I bring the others here and they take one whiff of this dump, I’m blaming you two." 

Reggy makes a mock salute, "Yes, boss. Operation Mop and Hope, commencing." 

Wrecker smirking, "And hey, once we’re done, it’ll be the classiest industrial ruin on the block." 

Gadget: "Not exactly a high bar, but I’ll take it. Get to work. I’ll check in soon."

===Biker's Barbeque===
[[File:Biker1.jpg|300px]][[File:Biker2.jpg|300px]]

Sitting on a roof top with their backs to a wall, Wrecker and Reggy contemplate their options. 

Wrecker is a stocky, husky, man with broad shoulders covered in tattoos.  He wears a short neatly trimmed Mohawk in red, green, purple and white. He has a camouflage jacket over his lap, and camouflage pants, having gone through an army surplus store he picked patterns from different countries. Sitting on a Belgian rucksack and smoking a small cigar and exhaling a multicolored smoke. 

Beside him Reggy snores softly, wearing a Denver Broncos sports jacket, blue jeans with his head on a Belgian rucksack.  He seems fairly relaxed. Snoring his relaxation.

Wrecker crawls over and slips up to look down over the roof edge at the ground with a rifle scope.

Reggy mumbles, “How many?  Is he there?”

Wrecker says, “About 7 in cuts.  Couple girls.  They are barbecuing.”

Reggy, "Ya, I can smell it.  I'm fraking hungry.  "  He rolls over and falls deeper asleep. 

Time passes as Reggy sleeps and Wrecker checks the the ground. 

Wrecker looks over a computer tablet , checking many details.  He mumbles.

“Murder, murder, murder, armed robbery, vandalism, vandalism, rape, rape, rape, assault,  assault, assault, assault, assault,  drug running, gun running. Theft, cleared, cleared, cleared. Pay offs, pay offs. Twelve targets.  No female targets.  Black Carl.. the president of the MC.  Dale Genkin, Vice Pres.  “

As dusk starts Wrecker looks over the edge of the roof.  He lays back and kicks Reggy to wake him.

“Black Carl and Genkin just arrived.  Take a look.”

Reggy crawls over and looks down.  He nods.  “I see them.  Say when.”

Wrecker says, “30 seconds.”

Reggy and Wrecker both pull up M4 rifles, rack rounds, checks the clip, pulls two extra clips out for each of them.  

They turn around and kneel by the roof's edge.  Putting the four clips between them.

Wrecker says, “I don't see Smiley.  Maybe he's inside.  So lets both hit Dale and Black Carl then you get everyone to your right.  I'll get everyone to my left.”  Reggy nods, "Head are yours, Chests are mine."

“One, Two, three," Wrecker whispers

On three the two swing up and and aim their rifles, taking targets.

The firing lasts 15 seconds, then there is screaming down below and the woman flee the back yard, running and jumping in two cars and fleeing quickly.  

Wrecker surveys the damage.  He and Reggy pull up their bags and slings their weapons over their shoulders.  They leap off the roof and land on the ground.  Walking through the backyard they take Low Order pictures of the dead. Then they go through pockets collecting money and wallets and pocket lint.  They pile weapons in a duffel bag. 

Dale moans in pain and Wrecker looks into his dying face, "Should have made a deal, Dale.  Such wasted potential."  He draws his Glock and issues the coup de gras. 

Going into the house they walk through seeking others.

Reggy stands by the door, "All the listed targets except Smiley were outside.  Didn't see that ''Prospect'' either.  Hey Wrecker, you realize we're psychopaths?"

Wrecker nods, "Its crossed my mind.  I became convinced on the streets of Ahyk.   Lets see whats inside."  He raises his hand and a small glowing symbol rises in front of it.  He moves the glowing symbol around the room. “Something....Move the couch.”  

Reggy pulls the couch, pushing it over on its back with ease.

Wrecker kneels down, running his hand along the floor.  Stopping, he punches the floor hard, pushing his hand through.  He pulls hard pulling up a large secret door.  Looking down into the hole the first thing they see are two girl who crouch in fear.  Beside them are bags of packed powder.  A large collection of guns.  Grocer bags of cash held together with rubber bands.

Reggy raises a symbol similar to Wrecker's.  He casts a sleep spell and the two girls go to sleep.

Wrecker removes a cell phone and calls. “Wrecker.  Targets neutralized Except Smiley Russel.  Two captives asleep.  Weapons in a hole.  Drugs.  Send in the Cleaners.” 
Reggy pulls out several bags of the pressed powder, the bags of cash, and couple fancy pistols and stashes them in the duffel bag, smiling at Wrecker.

“That was rough out there.  Mostly rough on them, of course.  So...Pizza?” Reggy says.

A few minutes later a van shows up at the Motorcycle's  Club's house.

The black van screeches to a halt outside the motorcycle clubhouse, its headlights cutting through the fading twilight. The Cleaners step out—a team of five, clad in nondescript dark clothing, each carrying specialized gear. Among them, a tall woman named Iris takes charge, her presence commanding as she assesses the scene.

Inside the house, Wrecker’s phone pings with a message: “Operation secure. Proceed to drop point.” He nods to Reggy as he raids the biker’s half-stocked fridge. “Let’s move,” Wrecker says.

The Cleaners begin their work. They catalog the weapons, retrieve the drugs, and carefully extract the unconscious captives. Iris pauses to look at the crude bunker beneath the floor. “They knew what they were hiding,” she mutters to one of her team members, who nods and bags up a stash of ledgers.  "Any trouble outside? " 

Wrecker shakes his head.  "a few building code violations..." 

Walking away from the scene, Wrecker with a duffel bag over his shoulder.  Reggy stops and grabs steaks and sausages from the BBQ, tossing them in his gun bag.

Wrecker and Reggy cut through a side alley. The city’s glow contrasts with the grimness of their mission. Reggy chews on a cold slice of leftover pizza he found at the clubhouse. “So,” he says between bites, “how long we gotta stay under the radar now?”

Wrecker smirks. “Not long. Couple days.  Iris's Cleaners know what to do. Black Carl and his crew were overdue for a reckoning. The streets are better off without them.”

Reggy grunts. “Still. It’s a slippery slope. We’re not the law.”

“No,” Wrecker says, pausing. He exhales multicolored smoke from his cigar. “But sometimes, we’re all that stands between order and chaos.” 

Back at their safe house, Wart's Station, a dingy flop in the industrial district, Wrecker checks their spoils. Among the wallets and cash, he finds a photo of a young girl tucked into Black Carl’s wallet. Frowning, he sets it aside. “Even monsters have something to lose,” he mutters.
Reggy looks over. “You getting soft, or just tired?”

“Neither,” Wrecker says. He locks the photo in a drawer. “This fight isn’t clean. It’s never clean. Gadget really picked a messy place to come.  Crap load of thugs.  Crime rate higher then the cops can manage.  Cops on the criminal's payrolls. ” 

They turn their attention to the drugs they retrieved. Wrecker pulls out a small vial from one of the bags and examines it under a desk lamp. “This is good stuff.  High quality.  Got a good connection.  This stuff hasn't been cut yet.”  Reggy pulls out sausages and steaks, setting them on top of an empty pizza box as he listens to his partner. 

Reggy leans over, looking and the cut open bundle. “Ya.  Good.”  He scoops out a cup full with a coffee cup, casts Clean ''cantrip'' on the table, pours out a pile of powder and starts cutting lines.

  
 
This passage may benefit from careful revision to align with tone and clarity, while also refining the balance between evocative imagery and the emotional context of the scene. Below is a revised version: