Editing Getting the Band Together (section)

===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.