We The People... [IC]
The rusty metal frame groaned as she sat up. A loose spring poked her thigh. She lingered, savoring the distraction. Anything was better than lying on that God forsaken mattress, wallowing in your own sweat and juices. She shuddered at the thought. How many other girls had been thrown down on some stained cot, hoping to fuck their way into a meal a day? Her nose wrinkled in disgust, both at the scandalous behavior and the low price their dignity sold for. 'You're better than those other whores,' she lied to herself, 'You're doing it for a cause. You don't come cheap. You are a champion of the greater good. You--'
"You're too damn skinny." Theron ignored the Border Patrol officer, brushing off his words as one would an errant strand of hair. She was almost done. All that was left was to trudge through the post-coital chit chat, grab the goods, and go. A few years ago she might have snapped back a barbed insult and the entire ordeal would have been forfeit. Now she knew better. 'Just stare at the wall. Let it roll off you like rain. Smile when he asks. Laugh at his stupid jokes. Make him feel in control. Make him feel powerful.' A hand groped around for the dirty rags they used as clothing. Pants, socks, and under garments were easily located, but her shirt had been kicked under the bed. With a sigh, she got on hands and knees to recover the lost article.
"Look at you! Got bones where your ass should be." An exaggeration, but there was some truth to it. Her ribs rippled beneath paper thin skin and the spine jutting out of her back was hard to miss. What could you do? There was never enough food to go around. All proles looked emaciated. They were emaciated. Every now and then you'd find an old magazine with pictures of full figured women and muscular men. She wondered how they got so plump. The older proles swore that everyone used to be fat and happy, just like the Aristocrats. Theron found that one hard to believe. Having been born into rez life like so many others, she knew nothing of the before times. There was a new generation of children and young adults that thrived under the terrible living conditions forced upon them, if only because they knew nothing else. It hardened them into survivors.
Shaking her head to clear the mind, she focused back on the task at hand. "Where are the things I asked for?" Now fully clothed and ready to leave, she put on her frosty demeanor. It was the only armor she had. "You told me you had access to medicine and the stuff on the list I gav--"
"Whoa, whoa, slow down, sweet cheeks. What, I don't get the girlfriend experience?" Theron narrowed her eyes in suspicion. She didn't understand what he meant. Relationships weren't what they used to be. They had devolved into business arrangements with a few benefits on the side. Boyfriends and girlfriends didn't exist. There was no time for love. "Jesus. I was joking. Here, you frigid bitch." He opened a drawer in the nearby dresser and tossed her a burlap sack. The muffled tinkling of glass against glass made her eyes go wide, but luckily nothing was broken. She stuffed the supplies in her backpack and marched towards the door. No goodbye. No thank you. This was a trade. Nothing more.
Save for the few inquisitive glances as she slipped through Border Patrol territory, her travels were largely ignored. Nobody bothered her as long as she kept her head down. Besides, her face was a familiar one.
Theron, a personal prostitute of the high ranking officials in the Bourgeoisie.
Smoke fought with the air in an ever lasting struggle, the mastermind behind this great battle hung from between two fingers. It's burning lips smiled and lit up the darkness, soon finding itself kissed by something much larger, and grew a little brighter. A man and his nicotine, sharing their compulsive love with each other, found with another close friend soon to join their passion, Scotch. The only mistress a man could need. Bill say back in his old wooden chair the lights in the house were dead and dusty, his uniform tainted with the distinct smell of booze, a surprise he managed to light a cigarette without igniting. A taunting light glimpsed from the window, beckoning him outward, the soft tranquil voice drawing him forward even more.
The chair sighed with relief as the man relieved it from duty and made his way for the door, leaving in silence to find himself in the cool night air, "Whew, hello darling!", he beckoned down the street at some female prole strolling away down the street, her shirt clothes two sizes to large as they clung to her skin and he lifted a hand up to rub above his lip as he watched her move away awkwardly, maybe it was the false will that the Scotch gave him, but he was ignored and the man didn't quite feel like having that right now. He went to make his move.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!", he howled down the street like a dog in search of meat, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, right foot; wait that's not right. The drunk misguided his foot and found himself toppling forward into the ground, his bottle slipping from his grip and headed for the sidewalk as it shattered, the bottle bleeding bronze across the ground, Bill found himself rolling on his back as he lifted a hand up to his nose, blood-staining his fingertips as he let out a chuckle, "Oh! You win this one, bitch!", his fight with the darkness having left him in the gutter.
A blur, a ring and the light, his eyes opened up as he let out a groan, the odd taste in his mouth as he licked his lips, "Blood?", he asked nobody in particular as his gaze scanned the area, a shattered bottle of Scotch, a bloody nose and a quiet suburb. The man stood himself up as he pulled his sleeve back to look at where a watch once was, before moving to pat down his pockets, only feeling himself up in the process. "Fuck! God-damn proles, fucking lurking around here! Stealing my shit!", here he was blaming everyone but himself, forgetting that he traded his watch for more alcohol and that he left his wallet at home. Only allowing himself to storm off back home, clean himself off and head back to the daily routine of a Border Guard, his uniform clinging to his skin, weapon in hand.
A uniform, a hangover and a gun; three bad things all pulled together to make a problem waiting to happen.
It was always calming to Bennett to work on weapons. Back when he was a fighter, he spent the hours following up to an operation cleaning and playing with his gun. Now he had the most basic of tools and supplies to make an arsenal. The metal was sharp on the edges, and he had cut himself more than once today. The windows of his shack were closed and locked; Two candles on his work bench gave him light to work by. The file worked back and forth, slowly trimming the metal to shape. This was only the third of this kind of weapon, and he still had to make ammunition. A quick double knock on the door shattered his concentration, making the file slip and run over his thumb. He reached over and grabbed the homemade shotgun from beside him, aiming it at the door. It only held three shots and the first would welcome a volley of automatic fire. He limped to behind the door, finger on the trigger.
The door opened and someone came in quickly. Bennett pushed the door shut and placed the barrel less than inch from the person's face. The kid looked over and said in a hushed yell, "Hey, watch it!"
"Damn it kid, I told you not to come by during the day." Bennett lowered the shotgun, but kept it in hand.
"I know, I was just stopping by to tell you I found some drill bits, they're pretty bad, but you can fix 'em, right?"
"Maybe. Drop them off 'round back tonight."
The kid nodded and then left. Bennett sighed and sat on his bed. It gave a lot under his weight. He closed his eyes, feeling the grit on them. He longed for a hot shower, some fried chicken, maybe even a cold beer. The simple things he had taken for granted. No, he had always valued them, just not as much as he should have. there had been people before that lived like this, he could make it. He got up, cringing as his leg went stiff and locked up. He walked out the back of his home, to the small space he had fenced in. A few shafts of miserable corn were trying to grow, alongside a row of wheat. He had rigged up a sheet of plastic to catch condensation. This ran into a pair of troughs that lightly watered the garden every night. He checked them for pests, finding none.
Bennett looked at the small plants. Something about them managing to live made him want to keep going. If they could make it, completely frail plants that were almost dust, so could he. If the fucking patrols wanted to take him, he would have a surprise for them. What was the quote? Oh yeah, If you have to fight, you need to convince your opponents that you're about to bring a level of violence totally out of proportion to the situation. And sometimes convincing wasn't enough.
Bennett headed back inside, imagining that his leg was bending the whole way.
It was just another day in paradise, and by another day in paradise that meant Martin Porter had survived another night in the sector that was considered one of the toughest in the proletarian sections. Martin lived in a burned out apartment building that had 4 walls and a roof which made him feel like a king, but he also shared his castle with 9 other people three of them were children. He felt a soft spot for children and families because when it came down to it that was all they had left to hang on to.
In a hidden area behind a wall Martin reached in and pulled out a loaf of stale bread and a liter of water. He took a bite of it and took a swig. That might be all that he got for the day, but he was thankful for it. Just then one of the older children began to stir and he saw Martin with his feast. The look on the child's face reminded him of the day that he saw a little girl witness her family get slaughtered. A look that still haunted him after all these years, and would still cause Martin to take action.
Martin nodded towards the child's mother and the child woke up the mother. She looked at Martin and he tossed her the bread and water. The woman looked at Martin and you'd thought that Martin gave her the key to the city. She said, "Bless you sir."
Martin nodded and said, "Pay it forward." Martin reached behind the wall an pulled out what best could be described as an improvised gun. He had put it together from various items that he found on his journeys, and he even had ammo to make it work. All that Martin was missing was a spring that would make it fire. Once he had it then it was game on. Martin knew that time was getting short on that aspect, because everyday the rumors of the resistance was growing and Martin was not joining up this fight without a gun. Not to mention Martin had his doubts that there would be weapons provided by the resistance.
Martin said, "Take care of the children."
The woman asked Martin if he would be returning again. Martin knew why she wanted him there, because if there was a man around that would certain "less" than desirables think twice of attacking her or trying anything. Martin said, "I might. I make no promises. Just lay low and keep quiet and they'll leave you alone."
The woman nodded and Martin said, "Check the other wall the brick is loose and there is food in there too. You can use it to bargain with."Martin had spent weeks building up that stockpile, but Martin knew he could get more. Martin knew how the black market worked and how to make the system work for him. She said, "Bless you sir."
Martin nodded once and walked away in search of a new home, and more importantly that one part that would make his gun work.
Steam rose from the mug of café au lait and hung in the early morning air. Evaline sat on the balcony of her apartment, still dressed in her fitted sleep shirt, watching the sun rise. Somewhere down below, birds could be heard chirping and splashing. Probably those finches Mrs. Aster had told her about one time or another. The elderly woman was so invested in the visitors to the birdbath placed on her balcony and chattered about them at every opportunity.
Eva sipped at her drink, eyes on the horizon. She wondered if there were any birds down on the surface of the planet. Well, any birds left that is. Anything down there that could be eaten was probably gone within the first year after Big Black Friday. Some animals might have lasted longer, if the animal in question had sentimental value.
Such macabre thoughts would’ve have made her shudder once. Now they just made her morose. If any of her family knew, they’d probably tell her she needed more pills. That was their solution: pills. Or booze. Some of them even took both. Anything to make them forget the people they left to rot and die on the surface below. But Eva couldn’t. Not anymore.
A chirrup sounded from inside: her alarm reminding her to wake up and get ready for work. The sun was barely peeking over the edge of the world, but Eva needed time to put on her face for the day. The face that said nothing was wrong, that life in the sky was everything the FCC promised and the Aristocracy believed it to be. The face the hid the truth everyone else denied.
Eva moved with purpose this morning, though, not the usual slog through routine. Today was a drop day. And she had a handful of things to deposit in the bin. Things that might make a difference to someone, anyone, down below.
Alex made his way in, slowly, and very carefully. It had taken him the better part of a day to memorize the guard schedules, and see where complacency had left gaps in the overlaps. These guys were no slouches. They definitely knew what their job was. It looked to Alex that they were less concerned with people coming in, and more concerned with people going out. Alex made sure he wasn't going to have a problem. He made trips from cover to and from the perimeter, marking the distances. He did it during the hottest times of day, when even the best thermals were next to worthless, even the guards didn't care much what happened. Alex was almost sure he could walk right in if he timed it right. He may even do it. At his current elevation he couldn't see much, too many buildings and too many... He paused. There was something going on, or just about to. Alex couldn't let the opportunity escape. He gathered his things, adjusted his clothes and equipment to make sure he wouldn't be noticed, and prepared himself for the run of his life.
Alex had mentally estimated that the guard's patrol sweeps had an 18 second lag in the over lap. He had positioned himself within sprinting distance, but he needed just a little more time. It was close to the edge of what he felt comfortable running. He needed to get in soon, do an internal recon, then find a place to bunk down for the night. But first thing was first, he had to get there. Alex didn't know what the commotion was, but it was pulling away from the external security enough that he could make his move. He made the dead sprint. It wasn't far, but as weight down with his gear as he was, it took a lot out of him. He had spotted a blind spot and utilized it to get through the barriers. Once on the inside he took a long moment hunkered down against a building to recover. It felt good. It felt really good to out smart "professional soldiers." Alex wasn't patting himself on the back just yet, but it still felt good. It gave him hope.
He made it to his feet, determined to do a decent recon of what he could before it got too dark to see at all. The commotion was drawing nearer. He made his way through the allies and what could possibly go for back yards, not much more than sticks with wire for fences. He was keeping his head down but his awareness up. He looked around and could see that his clothing resembled that of the lowest class it appeared. He watched as someone dressed just like him sat on a corner and begged, they seemed no more than bones. He reached into a belt pouch and pulled out a pair of work gloves to hide his hands, they were muscular and thick with calluses from hard work. He slid them on, still watching the starving wretch. Then, before his eyes he watched as two thugs hit the man in the side of the head, killing him in his frail state, then began to ran sack the few possessions he had. Alex's blood immediately evaporated from fury. The callus treatment of the oppressed was something he had no tolerance for. He had almost done it right then. He had almost blown his cover completely. The thugs finished ransacking the corpse and moved on without so much as a look back. Alex followed.
The men walked through what seemed like a maze of allies before they came to a stop and whirled to face Alex. They didn't say anything they simply lunged at him. Alex side stepped the first, grabbing his wrist, the second landing a glancing blow that knocked Alex's hood of, it was a pipe or some bludgeoning object. Alex had more important things to worry about than the specificity of what club he had been hit with. Alex smoothly drew his knife and pulled the man's arm toward him, driving the knife into his bony rib cage to the hilt. The thug crumpled to the ground pulling the blade free automatically, the second blow was descending, the other thug had manoeuvred to engage again, this time missing and hitting his partner, the second man dropped the tool and began calling in a language Alex didn't recognise, it sounded like a dialect of Spanish. Alex turned and ran, he didn't have to see what the man was calling for to know it wasn't good for him. The adrenaline pumping in his veins fuelled his feet. Alex ran smack into a young woman dressed in rags. "I'm terribly sorry miss I-I!" he stammered.
"Whew, hello darling!"
"Fuck you, pig." Muttered under the breath, it was a small sliver of insubordination that brought a smile to her face. The man reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. But perhaps reeked was the wrong word. While found only once in a rare while, liquor was a hot commodity on the rez. It seemed that everyone was a budding alcoholic, Theron included. Something about numbing the senses just made the days go by a little bit quicker. Hell, if she weren't smuggling contraband she might have offered a roll in the hay for what was left of his bottle. He seemed like he'd be a steady source of the liquid courage. Still, this was no time for tom foolery. She had a job to do and walked right on past this poor specimen.
"Hey! I'm talking to you!" She froze. His bellow carried down every alley and bounced off of every wall. A group of patrolmen looked over, hands on their holsters. A lone guard started to walk in her direction. "Shit. Shit, shit, shit." Muddy brown eyes flicked in every direction, searching for the path of least resistance. There was none. Each route was populated with the foot soldiers of the Aristocracy. With her chances of survival dropping rapidly by the second, she chose a road that had only one guard and trotted towards him. 'Please be someone I know. Please be some idiot who falls for a pretty smile. Please...' It wasn't. This young man looked to be about 19. Probably fresh from boot camp. He sure as hell walked like it.
"Prole! You are in a restricted area. I have every right to shoot." He paused, noticing her heavy backpack and down turned gaze. "Up against the wall now, filth. I'm conducting a search of your belongings for illegal material." This one was on his game. 'Must be kissing some serious ass. Or maybe he gets off on the power trip.' She rolled her eyes and tried to barrel past him. The new ones were always nervous and she was so close to the main gate. Just another block or--
For a second Theron couldn't breathe. The guard, in one quick movement, had punched her in the gut and shoved her up against the wall. Glass crunched audibly. A cold liquid seeped out of her bag. Their eyes met; hers full of fear and pleading, his with malicious intent. "You thought you could get away with it, huh? Stupid bitch." She looked back for help where none would be found. The only person there was the drunk from earlier, armed and dangerous. "That's right. Nobody's going to save you. Nobody gives a fuck about you." He smirked, knowing damn well she was dead meat. He unholstered his gun, cocked it back, and pressed it to her temple. "Any last words?"
"Yeah. Burn in hell!" She rammed her forehead into his face. There was a sickening crunch, followed by a thud as he hit the dirt.
"YOU BITCH! You broke my nose!" One, two, three shots fired into the air. An alarm went off. Sirens rang out, audible for miles around. The group of patrolmen shouted orders at each other, their boots pounding into the ground as they came her way. With only a second to think, Theron jumped on the fallen guard's gun hand, breaking the fragile bones beneath. He screamed. She grabbed the gun, turned tail, and ran.
Now, she wasn't strong, and she wasn't smart, and she may even have been the worst recruit for the rebellion imaginable, but damn, that girl was fast. What she lacked in appreciable wartime skill, she more than made up for with speed, agility, and reflexes. After a lifetime of climbing over decimated buildings and running through an apocalyptic wasteland, it was almost too easy to outrun the sluggish Border Patrol. Their bullets, however, were another story.
Shots sailed past her head, hitting nearby concrete with explosive force. She ducked and dodged, but it was only a matter of time before one made contact with its tiny, fleeing target. As the metal buried itself in her left arm, she screamed. Long and loud, it carried just as well as the alarms that filled the air. Tears of excruciating pain streamed down her cheeks. She clutched at her wound and felt blood gushing forth. This was bad.
Even worse was the reaction of her fellow proles. Having crossed into rez territory with armed Patrol just behind, everyone ducked into the nearest shelter. Her cries for help fell on deaf ears. All she could do was keep running. Her lungs burned trying to keep up with her legs and she thought she might collapse from the exertion. Thankfully someone was kind enough to run directly into her, sending them both to the asphalt.
"I'm terribly sorry miss I-I!"
"Shut up and move it!" Theron wiped the tears from her face, leaving a smear of blood that looked like war paint. She looked back, expecting another bullet to nestle itself between her frontal lobes, but was surprised to see Border Patrol had stopped short. The reason became clear. A Spanish gang en masse had followed this stranger, but redirected their aggression towards enemy numero uno.
Even Border Patrol knew better than to mess with the Latin Kings.
Bang! "Shit! Look at that Prole run, baby!", Bill fired a single shot from his sidearm at a fleeing Prole who had come a little too close to his patrol, he turned to face another member of the patrol, "Hey, Bud! Did you see how fast he booked it? That man was out of here faster than you finish in bed!", the entire squad of about ten men including Bill all erupted into laughter, Bud tried to retaliate poorly at that considering he was laughing himself, "Go fuck yourself, Bill!", the man was sober for once and his headache seemed to have faded, "I would if your wife wasn't busy doing that for me.", half the men let out an "oooo" that reminded Bill of school before all this shit happened, he smiled a tad, "Oh, probably cause your wife is too busy with John to fuck you, right?". Silence fell upon them, Bill stopped as Bud bumped into his back.
"What did you say?", the patrol stopped to just stare at the two, Bud backed up defensively as he lifted up his hand in a non-threatening manner, "Listen Bill, it was all in good fun man...", his reasoning fell on deaf ears, Bill turned around to stare at him, his hands clenching up into fists, the sidearm shaking in his hand as he slipped it into a holster, "You didn't answer my fucking question.", the bulge in his throat rose as there was a loud gulp, "Listen B-...". Wham! Bud stumbled backward as he shuttered and then collapsed on the ground; a knock-out punch was delivered right to his jaw, the patrol seemed hesitant however, nobody was going to intervene with the business that Bill was involved in. After all he was leading the patrol and one of the most experienced in the batch if not the most. "Joey and Leonard, take Bud here and RTB.", the two obeyed orders with silence and they soon broke off, Bill and the other seven men walked off into Prole territory for a general sweep.
Bill turned his head to face the rest of the men and lifted a hand up to his mouth and coughed loudly to draw attention, the eight well-armed men turned to face him and he nodded, "Alright, time for us to get around to business, I want everyone to put your masks on and get ready to wrap this up. Some Prole bitch is currently in possession of a weapon that she got from a rookie, whom she fucked up.", he turned to face a town behind them as he pointed and looked toward the patrol that were now all putting their gasmasks on and checking their weapons, "We are going to go in there and find her, capture her and retrieve the property.", he rolled his shoulder and bounced in place a little, "Oh, she's also in the presence of a group of Hispanics that seem to be less than compliant, you know what to do.". All of the men in his presence nodded and said, "Aye, aye, Major!", Bill actually held rank in the Border Patrol, surprising for a drunk.
They made their way forward with their weapons raised, the eight of them splitting off into four groups of two, each of them stacking up on buildings and breaching, the small shanty town soon found itself in a raid as there was screams and gunshots all around, any Hispanic male that looked even remotely threatening was engaged with extreme prejudice; this did unfortunately lead to the slaughter of innocence during their search for Theron.
Bennett did a final check of his weapon. It was on of his sniper weapons, the ones that took the most time. For everything else, he didn't bother to rifle the barrels; most fighting was guerrilla style and as close range. He wanted the sniper rifles to fit the role though and not just be big slug throwers. Rifling took days of hard work, and half the time he massed up towards the end. Bennett pulled the bolt back slowly, feeling the heavy spring fighting him. The dirty steel round glinted in the afternoon light. It was a 15-millimeter and packed with and explosive charge. He used to make these rounds for his team and their .50-BMG sniper rifles.
One of the two with him, kids really, signaled him. Bennett held up four fingers with his left hand and then repeated. Eight. The youth nodded, gripping his automatic rifle tightly. He had twenty rounds in it and two more magazines. The other kid was out of sight. He would start the ambush.
"Fuckin' bastards...Ready for this?" He was talking to himself. Was he going nuts? No, crazy people thought they were sane. He must just be stressed, that was it.
The eight men walked through the streets, handguns out. They stopped to kick an old man, and then shot him. His trigger finger tightened. The spring behind it creaked. He let out a slow breath, steadying himself. They were getting close. The first teenager looked up at him, but was ignored. He was on his own now. They would regroup afterwards.
The blast was muffled, but it shattered the misery. The second fighter had triggered the sad attempt at a bomb. Not nearly enough explosive, but what was he to do? It wasn't easy or safe to make and store the stuff. One of the men had a leg missing, the others were confused. Both opened fire, stitching the enemy group with 7-millimeter lead. Two more went down. By now, Bennett had a target. One of the patrol was taking aim on the first fighter. Bennett and he pulled the trigger in the same instant. The entire left side of the first kid's head transferred to the wall. A second later, the Border Patrol soldier had a fist sized hole in his chest.
The recoil hurt, really bad. He had to reset the gun on the brick wall. By then the soldiers were retreating. Bennett fired one more round, striking a man in the ankle.
For a minute, there was no sound. The residents were waiting for more gunfire. Any wildlife in the area was terrified. Humans were violent, Bennett was an expert in that field. He left the rifle and moved down to the site. The man without a leg was lying in the dirt, several holes in his torso. Another lay with his gut slashed open. The blood sat in the dust, not mixing. The second kid, Ben, ran out of a pile of scrap, weapon in his arms. Drunk waves of heat moved off the barrel.
"I hit one, but they carried him away. I think I hit a second, but he didn't drop. How did Mike do?"
Bennett didn't spare him his brother's death. "Shot in the head. Sorry."
The kid had been born in hell, he was tempered. "Is that who you shot?"
Bennett recalled the sharp kick of his rifle, the tongue of flame that had shot forward. "Yeah, he's behind the car."
Mike's brother walked to the car and found the dead man. As some sort of revenge, he dumped what ammunition he had left into the body. Bennett let him, hatred was necessary. They collected Mike's weapon and Bennett's rifle. Ben didn't say a word. The locals watched them as they moved, a defiance to a cruel world.
Martin pulled his black coat around his shoulders, put on a black hat, dark glasses, and headed away from the ruined building that was once his home. If he stayed there after helping that family that could lead to emotional attachments and that was something Martin wasn't sure he was ready for at this point in his life. Especially living here in this time emotions like love and joy were considered luxuries, and most of the people had their chance at them but this was about the children for Martin. He figured if he did enough then maybe one day that memory of that little girl's face would finally smile at him in his dreams, and not look at him like he was a monster.
In his pocket he had two pieces of bread, an apple, and a bottle of water. That was a feast for Martin but in this case he had to make it last at least a day and a half. As he walked down the street Martin was shocked at the lengths people would go through just to survive, but at the same time inspired by them as well. He figured if they could find reasons to carry on or wake up and open their eyes and not a vein then Martin Porter could as well. Besides today was a very special day this was a drop day. Who knew maybe today would be the day that Martin finally got the piece that made his gun finally work.
He saw what once was a welding shop and figured going through it was a nice way to kill some time. Chances were likely that it was pretty well cleaned out of anything of value, but Martin knew that some times good fortune could be found in some of the most unique areas. Martin entered in and took his glasses off he said, "Okay let's see if Santa left anything in here today."
With that he started going through the scrap sections, the lockers, and the offices. He found a couple packages of crackers, a toothbrush, a crude but effective shiv, and two sodas. The sodas had well expired but down here that was no reason to throw them out. Just then he heard something and Martin pivoted around to see three "gentlemen" dressed in denim jackets with black and yellow markings on them. Martin knew he was in a bad situation these were members of the Black Jacks and rarely did they show any mercy if they saw you.
One of them said, "Boy this ain't your lucky day, but sure as hell is ours!"
Martin said, "Look no one has to get hurt. We walk away now it's all over I was just leaving."
Another one said, "Nah stick around for a while. Stay around for life!"
They all three moved in and Martin shook his head and said, "Okay here we go."
Without hesitation Martin threw both sodas at the heads of two of the gang members. They exploded against their faces in a mixture of blood and carbonation and both gang members went down like a Jenga game. The one remaining looked around for a moment at his fallen friends and he said, "You have no idea what you just did." He pulled out a switch blade and flicked it open.
Martin shook his head and said, "You really are as dumb as you look." Martin then replied, "Yeah I think I do. I just cut your group membership down by two, and now..." In one motion he flicked the shiv into the other member's chest and said, "I've gone 3 for 3."
As they laid there dead Martin picked up the Switch Blade, also got two throwing stars, a pocket knife, and underneath one of them he smiled as he found a spring that just might work.
Martin said, "Gentlemen I thank you for your help. Rest in peace."
Martin decided now was a good time to get out while he could, and to find a place to put together his gun and to test fire it.