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Esteves was pissed. 


Months of intricate planning were all coming undone, and there was almost certainly going to be life-ending consequences if he didn’t act quickly. And now Mancini wasn’t answering his fucking phone.


Frustrated beyond reason, Esteves had called an emergency meeting with his contacts, who had just now come swaggering into his private bar. 


“Forgive my brashness gentlemen...BUT WHAT THE -FUCK- IS GOING ON?!” The Ghoul slammed his fists down on the counter, glowering at the two new arrivals “Is this some kind of fucking joke?! I was promised, GUARAN-FUCKING-TEED,  that everything would go off without a HITCH! Yet here we are! So much for your word being golden, West!” 


Clayton West sat calmly on the other side of the bar, sipping at his drink. He was a handsome man, with a strong jaw and smart dress sense. 


Then there was the other man. “Smog” he called himself; a raider from the ruins of Oregon. Whereas West was lithe and well-groomed, Smog was big and broad, with a scraggly beard and miss-matched armour. 


“Respectfully, Mister Esteves,” West began “we did instruct you to account for all variables. Mister Smog and myself can hardly be blamed for your own shortcomings.”


“You wanna get smart with me, Clayton?!” Esteves snapped, his words coming out as a hoarse rasp “because I am in no mood to fuck around!” 


“Sounds to me like that's all you’ve been doing.” Smog spoke up, in his deep, grumbling voice “Krezzman has kept up his end of the bargain, as has West. You were tasked with acquiring the offering, and you efforts so far have been laughable at best.” 


Esteves felt a sharp spike of rage swelling up inside him, and he started to see red. 


“How -FUCKING- dare you-” 


Suddenly, Smog was on his feet. He grabbed Esteves by the scruff of the next, twisting one arm behind his back. 


The Ghoul yet out a shriek of pain, just as Smog slammed his face down against the bar counter. 


“The -FUCK- are you doing, asshole?!” Esteves hissed, spitting out a few droplets of blood. 


“The President deems you to be a botched asset, Mister Esteves,” West explained as casually as if he was discussing the weather, slowly rising to his feet “Mister Smog will assume control of your operations from this point onwards.” 


“Like -FUCK- he will!” Esteeves snarled, the wood muffling his words “as long as I draw breath-” 


“I can’t imagine that will be for very much longer,” West shrugged “you’re too much of a liability to be kept alive. Quite frankly, you’ve been living on borrowed time for far too long.” 


Esteves paused. 


“H-hold on now…” 


Smog pulled a .44 revolver out of its holster on his belt.


“W-wait! WAIT!” 


[b] -BANG- [/b] 


Life left Esteeves with a gasp, his rotten brain spraying across the counter. Smog let go of the ghoul, sending him tumbling to the floor. His dark blood soaked into the carpet, turning it black.


“Damn zombies forced our hand.” Smog grunted.


“We’ll have to do the best with what we’ve got left,” West declared “get the Pagans loaded up into the trucks. We leave town tonight.”