Editing Getting the Band Together (section)

=== '''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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