Editing Getting the Band Together (section)

=='''Places'''==

=== '''At The Ugly Ferret Tavern - Chapter One'''===

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

Wrecker looked 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. It’s 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 shrugged, "Having both has worked for me. What makes you think I’m 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 pulled a roll of bills and stuck it on its bottom. The bartender opened it and counted it. He didn’t wear a cut, so he looked to Black Carl, who gave a slight nod. The money disappeared, and he poured two tall glasses. Wrecker said, "Leave the bottle, Lucky."

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

Reggy nodded, "Ya, I’m packing, but you’ll only see it if we were in prison, princess." Smiley started moving, and Dale put his hand on his chest. "I said enough."

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

Wreck poured a chug of whiskey into his beer and took 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?”

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 grabbed his glass and matched his friend. Smiley stared at him with naked hatred, showing his broken teeth. Reggy grinned, letting his upper and lower Orc canines show. Smiley blinked in uncertainty.

Wrecker nodded 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 slipped a photo over on the bar.

Looking down, Dale said, "What are these?"

Wrecker said, "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 handguns is diverse. Street walker prices for courtesan service. Pleasure doing business with you. We’ll be around.”

Wrecker and Reggy polished off their beers and whiskey in gulps. Wrecker looked at the bartender. "Don’t forget our tab, Lucky." He grabbed the half-empty bottle as they left.

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 turned 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 chuckled outside.

From his corner, Black Carl’s eyes followed them to the door, his expression unreadable. He whispered 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 laughed, "I was amazed at Genkins’ self-control. And I thought Smiley was going to snap! Johnsons... "

Reggy laughed, "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.

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=== '''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 Gadget’s 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. Gadget appraised two musicians probably in their 20s, playing saxes; Mack something & Danny Dean. They were familiar to her from other shadows. Maybe they would add the bang the group could use...

Waldo began filling a shopping cart with the group’s 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 said, “Like a shithole covered in industrial waste. Your dogs are creeping me out. But it doesn’t smell like rotted cheese, takeout, pot, and stale semen. We cleaned out the front room enough to live there. Fixed the plumbing and set up some solar cells. It’s pretty messy. You still thinking of burning it down? We have a few ideas about that. Or are you going to use it?”

Gadget pondered 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 nodded, “Close enough.”

“Start cleaning it up for us. Leave enough junk so they feel like they clean it out when I get there. Nothing fancy. Clean cantrips and elbow grease. Do something creative in the rape room. It’s going to be hard to convince Cali. Let’s go take a look.”

Gadget looked 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 wrinkled 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 shrugged, "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."

Gadget turned at Reggy, who said, "I’m an orc."

Gadget looked 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 rolled 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’? You’re really thinking of moving your whole band here? I thought that was a joke."

"Yeah. The squat’s too crowded."

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

Reggy settled 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 said excitedly. "We’ve been charging up the car—dumping extra power into it. It’s still back in Ang Ri. We think we can use it to anchor something here. At some point, we won’t be able to disguise ourselves."

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

Reggy grinned slyly. "We’ve got a rough sketch for a place."

"And by ‘rough sketch,’ you mean...?"

Wrecker shrugged, "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’s 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 sighed, 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 made a mock salute. "Yes, boss. Operation Mop and Hope, commencing."

Wrecker smirked. "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."

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Certainly! Below is the continuation of the story, revised to maintain consistent past tense. I'll continue from where we left off, ensuring all tenses are corrected and the narrative flows smoothly.

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==='''Biker's Barbeque'''===

Sitting on a rooftop with their backs to a wall, Wrecker and Reggy contemplated their options.

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

Beside him, Reggy snored softly, wearing a Denver Broncos sports jacket and blue jeans, his head on a Belgian rucksack. He seemed fairly relaxed, snoring his relaxation.

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

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

Wrecker said, “About seven in cuts. Couple of girls. They’re barbecuing.”

Reggy, "Yeah, I can smell it. I’m fraking hungry." He rolled over and fell deeper asleep.

Time passed as Reggy slept, and Wrecker checked the ground.

Wrecker looked over a computer tablet, checking many details. He mumbled.

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

As dusk started, Wrecker looked over the edge of the roof. He laid back and kicked Reggy to wake him.

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

Reggy crawled over and looked down. He nodded. “I see them. Say when.”

Wrecker said, “Thirty seconds.”

Reggy and Wrecker both pulled up M4 rifles, racked rounds, checked the clip, and pulled two extra clips out for each of them.

They turned around and knelt by the roof's edge, putting the four clips between them.

Wrecker said, “I don’t see Smiley. Maybe he’s inside. So let’s both hit Dale and Black Carl, then you get everyone to your right. I’ll get everyone to my left.” Reggy nodded, "Heads are yours, chests are mine."

“One, two, three," Wrecker whispered.

On three, the two swung up and aimed their rifles, taking targets.

The firing lasted fifteen seconds, then there was screaming down below, and the women fled the backyard, running and jumping into two cars and fleeing quickly.

Wrecker surveyed the damage. He and Reggy pulled up their bags and slung their weapons over their shoulders. They leapt off the roof and landed on the ground. Walking through the backyard, they took low-order pictures of the dead. Then they went through pockets, collecting money, wallets, and pocket lint. They piled weapons in a duffel bag.

Dale moaned in pain, and Wrecker looked into his dying face. "Should have made a deal, Dale. Such wasted potential." He drew his Glock and issued the coup de grâce.

Going into the house, they walked through, seeking others.

Reggy stood 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 nodded. "It’s crossed my mind. I became convinced on the streets of Ahyk. Let’s see what’s inside." He raised his hand, and a small glowing symbol rose in front of it. He moved the glowing symbol around the room. “Something... Move the couch.”

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

Wrecker knelt down, running his hand along the floor. Stopping, he punched the floor hard, pushing his hand through. He pulled hard, pulling up a large secret door. Looking down into the hole, the first thing they saw were two girls who crouched in fear. Beside them were bags of packed powder. A large collection of guns. Grocery bags of cash held together with rubber bands.

Reggy raised a symbol similar to Wrecker's. He cast a sleep spell, and the two girls went to sleep.

Wrecker removed a cell phone and called. “Wrecker. Targets neutralized except Smiley Russel. Two captives asleep. Weapons in a hole. Drugs. Send in the Cleaners.” Reggy pulled out several bags of the pressed powder, the bags of cash, and a couple of fancy pistols and stashed them in the duffel bag, smiling at Wrecker.

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

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

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

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

The Cleaners began their work. They cataloged the weapons, retrieved the drugs, and carefully extracted the unconscious captives. Iris paused to look at the crude bunker beneath the floor. “They knew what they were hiding,” she muttered to one of her team members, who nodded and bagged up a stash of ledgers. "Any trouble outside?"

Wrecker shook his head. "A few building code violations..."

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

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

Wrecker smirked. “Not long. Couple of 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 grunted. “Still. It’s a slippery slope. We’re not the law.”

“No,” Wrecker said, pausing. He exhaled 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 checked their spoils. Among the wallets and cash, he found a photo of a young girl tucked into Black Carl’s wallet. Frowning, he set it aside. “Even monsters have something to lose,” he muttered.

Reggy looked over. “You getting soft, or just tired?”

“Neither,” Wrecker said. He locked 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 than the cops can manage. Cops on the criminals' payrolls.”

They turned their attention to the drugs they retrieved. Wrecker pulled out a small vial from one of the bags and examined it under a desk lamp. “This is good stuff. High quality. Got a good connection. This stuff hasn’t been cut yet.” He looked at the rest of the take; cash, pistols, sausages, steaks, herb. Counting cash, sorting it, "About 15 grand of operating money. The pistols look OK, got a nice Desert Eagle. One of their pretty guns. Couple of bags of weed. You had to throw meat on all? The cash smells like grease."

Reggy pulled over the sausages and steaks, setting them on top of an empty pizza box as he listened to his partner. "I learned my lesson, daddy. Eat a good meal before mass murder."

Reggy leaned over, looking at the cut-open bundle. He scooped out a cup full with a coffee cup, cast a Clean cantrip on the table, poured out a pile of powder, and started cutting lines.

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Certainly! Below is the continuation of the story, revised to maintain consistent past tense. I'll continue from where we left off, ensuring all tenses are corrected and the narrative flows smoothly.

<div class="center" style="width: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;">[[File:Musicline1.jpg]]</div>