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Polyphemus Member
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@Klumsykrow357 Looks good! Accepted, just put the entire sheet in a hider for me when you put it on the CS tab.
@Klumsykrow357
I like the idea a lot! The terrofying clan is a classic Southern Gothic trope and I think it would be a great fit for this RP.
I like the idea a lot! The terrofying clan is a classic Southern Gothic trope and I think it would be a great fit for this RP.
And new post, with a little help from The Wyrm.
SONG FOR THIS POST
"We're On Our Way"- Chris Hodges
SONG FOR THIS POST
"We're On Our Way"- Chris Hodges
Mrs. Hawkins laughed at Rookwood's suggestion, perhaps a little too loudly. “No, not looking for a war. Not by any means. Just another way to make some money. I thought we might get a dozen or so rifles and see if the water is warm enough to swim.”
She took a pull from her beer, beginning to go warm in her hand. She had some regard for the older man, partly affection but mostly pragmatic business sense. The cases of rum Harold was currently loading into the bed of the Chevy were her biggest moneymaker and could not be jeopardized. It only seemed right to offer him an out. “Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “I completely understand if it's too much risk. Like I said, it's only an experiment, we're not looking to equip a battalion. If it's not safe for you, then we're not doing it. If we go through with it, you'll get a fair price and something extra for your trouble. Simple as that.” She extended a hand to the two men. “Shake on it?”
Rookwood considered her for a long moment, almost to the point where her hand, floating in front of him, was looking mighty awkward. Then he extended his own, the battered and calloused knuckles of the remaining four fingers closing over hers like a slab of ham.
"I reckon I can find you a few rifles. But, mark my words Mrs Hawkins, I'll never have heard of you if the feds come a knocking." Behind them Blackthorne heaved the last case of rum onto the jetty with a grunt. He finished his beer in one quick pull before flipping the bottle into a nearby metal pail where it landed with a crash.
"That fella we got our see-gars from mentioned he might know a lad with some spare kit. Better if'n Mrs Hawkins has it than the spics."
“Always a pleasure, Mr. Rookwood. Fair seas and following winds,” she called back as she lifted herself lightly into the pickup's cab.
“You really should have just forced him,” Harold grumbled as they drove back to into town. He turned down the radio to make himself better heard and clicked on the Chevy's headlights as the dark grew thicker.
“I've told you time and again, Harold, Rookwood is too valuable to strongarm,” she lightly scolded the young man. “He could be taking all his rum to New Orleans or Tampa or Houston, sell it to the heavyweight players. But he comes here every time with a load for us. You get me, hon? Loyalty is hard to come by in this trade.”
“You just let me put a .38 to his head and he'll bring us rum and guns for free and smile doing it," Harold groused.
“Oh, be nice.”
“Well, you shouldn't have given him a choice. If we want to make Chicago's quota we're going to need some kind of backup plan.”
“I'm open to suggestions, Harold. I don't think cigars are gonna cut it, though.”
“Well, if you're open to the idea of guns and the federal time that might go with that, might as well go all in.” He sighed, looked around the cab of the pickup as though some microphone or sharp-eared gnome might be in there listening. “I still have a few buddies in the Army. They know guys who know guys in Thailand.”
She could hardly believe her ears. “What are you suggesting? Opium? Heroin?”
Harold shrugged. “Easier to ship than guns. Takes up less space and a hundred different ways to hide it. Pound for pound you make more money.”
“Harold, what do you think is gonna happen exactly? I walk into Rite Aid and start asking people looking for aspirin if they want to try something a bit harder? Supply is one thing, but I can't make up demand. Not to mention distribution, and we're gonna have a hard time getting Dawkins or anyone else to look the other way on anything like that coming into the county.”
“Oh, and you think automatic weapons are harmless? Who do you think is gonna buy those, Mrs. Hawkins? It's not gonna be hillbillies who want to plink a few tin cans. It's gonna be those same heavyweights from New Orleans, Tampa, and Houston you were talking about. Or maybe even some of those radical types that are always hijacking planes to Cuba or shooting soldiers in Belfast. You ready to sell guns to Andreas Baader?”
“It ain't perfect, Harold, but what in life is?” she retorted.
They turned the corner into the gravel parking lot of Hawkins Spirits, the headlight beams falling on a young man leaning up against the wall of the building. Harold stiffened, reached for the grease gun wedged between the seats, but Mrs. Hawkins laid a gentle hand on his wrist. “I recognize him. He works for Shoeshine. Besides, he's just a kid, can't be older than 16.”
They pulled to a stop in front of the kid. Harold turned the high beams on, doubtless blinding the poor kid, and laid a hand on the grease gun. Paranoid as ever. Mrs. Hawkins suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and rolled down the window, leaning out the passenger side. “You got a message from Mr. Simmons?” she called to the young man over the idling of the truck engine, trying to sound as pleasant and affable as possible.
The teen nodded. “He said he wants to talk. Said you'd know what about.”
Of course she did. Chicago was squeezing Harlow and those Redline Dogs too. So of course he wanted Shoeshine Simmons, his one-man State Department, to talk things over for the future. She appreciated the other man's sense in sending a messenger, as well. Phones could be tapped, notes lost, but a kid given a few dollars to memorize a phrase that was meaningless to them was never going to make it to court.
“Well, young man, I greatly appreciate you coming down here with that message. You go back to Mr. Simmons and tell him he's welcome to come down to my store tonight if he wants to talk things over.” She motioned for Harold to cut the lights and engine as she stepped down out of the pickup, reaching into her slacks for her keys. “Come on in, son. It's gonna be a long hot drive back, why don't we open up the cooler and get you a nice cold coke for the road. Or hell, you've done a man's job, let's make that a beer. A three-two, don't want you running yourself off the road.”
The teen shyly and politely muttered some thanks, awkwardly and hesitantly grabbed a Pepsi from one of the cold cabinets before jumping into a battered old Pontiac and taking off, doubtlessly heading back to report to Shoeshine. Harold waited until the sound of the car died in the distance before turning back to Mrs. Hawkins. “You're really just gonna stay here and wait for them to show up? What if it's a trap?”
She shrugged. “There's no love lost between us, but if Harlow wanted to kill me he's had years to do it. No, they're coming to me because they think I'm either going to be easier to talk to or easier to push around than the men. All there is to it.”
“I'm calling the Jagger brothers for security. Telling them to bring over their shotguns.”
Mrs. Hawkins once again fought the urge to roll her eyes, but recognized that one day these precautions might not be too excessive. “Don't get the Jaggers. Their, uh, points of view regarding gentlemen of color are not the kind I want to mix with shotguns and negotiations. If you really insist on having the Secret Service around call Angel Nunez and his cousins. Tell him $50 and a bottle per head for an hour's work, they'll come right down. In the meantime, I'm just gonna sit and wait for Shoeshine Simmons to come here so we can talk like civilized people. And while you're on the phone, maybe make sure Ronnie got those people their free cases of whiskey.”
As if to punctuate her point, she sat down and pulled the magazine from her back pocket, beginning to read. Harold looked as though he was about to say something, but went to use the phone in back.
Mrs. Hawkins found herself once again staring at the diagrams of automatic rifles. This was the right call, surely.
She took a pull from her beer, beginning to go warm in her hand. She had some regard for the older man, partly affection but mostly pragmatic business sense. The cases of rum Harold was currently loading into the bed of the Chevy were her biggest moneymaker and could not be jeopardized. It only seemed right to offer him an out. “Of course,” she added thoughtfully, “I completely understand if it's too much risk. Like I said, it's only an experiment, we're not looking to equip a battalion. If it's not safe for you, then we're not doing it. If we go through with it, you'll get a fair price and something extra for your trouble. Simple as that.” She extended a hand to the two men. “Shake on it?”
Rookwood considered her for a long moment, almost to the point where her hand, floating in front of him, was looking mighty awkward. Then he extended his own, the battered and calloused knuckles of the remaining four fingers closing over hers like a slab of ham.
"I reckon I can find you a few rifles. But, mark my words Mrs Hawkins, I'll never have heard of you if the feds come a knocking." Behind them Blackthorne heaved the last case of rum onto the jetty with a grunt. He finished his beer in one quick pull before flipping the bottle into a nearby metal pail where it landed with a crash.
"That fella we got our see-gars from mentioned he might know a lad with some spare kit. Better if'n Mrs Hawkins has it than the spics."
“Always a pleasure, Mr. Rookwood. Fair seas and following winds,” she called back as she lifted herself lightly into the pickup's cab.
Hurricanes, thunder
A spaceship's on the run
We're gonna bring the truth to planet earth
We're gonna move it on and on
We're on our way
We're on our way
We're on our way, we're on our way
We're on our way
A spaceship's on the run
We're gonna bring the truth to planet earth
We're gonna move it on and on
We're on our way
We're on our way
We're on our way, we're on our way
We're on our way
“You really should have just forced him,” Harold grumbled as they drove back to into town. He turned down the radio to make himself better heard and clicked on the Chevy's headlights as the dark grew thicker.
“I've told you time and again, Harold, Rookwood is too valuable to strongarm,” she lightly scolded the young man. “He could be taking all his rum to New Orleans or Tampa or Houston, sell it to the heavyweight players. But he comes here every time with a load for us. You get me, hon? Loyalty is hard to come by in this trade.”
“You just let me put a .38 to his head and he'll bring us rum and guns for free and smile doing it," Harold groused.
“Oh, be nice.”
“Well, you shouldn't have given him a choice. If we want to make Chicago's quota we're going to need some kind of backup plan.”
“I'm open to suggestions, Harold. I don't think cigars are gonna cut it, though.”
“Well, if you're open to the idea of guns and the federal time that might go with that, might as well go all in.” He sighed, looked around the cab of the pickup as though some microphone or sharp-eared gnome might be in there listening. “I still have a few buddies in the Army. They know guys who know guys in Thailand.”
She could hardly believe her ears. “What are you suggesting? Opium? Heroin?”
Harold shrugged. “Easier to ship than guns. Takes up less space and a hundred different ways to hide it. Pound for pound you make more money.”
“Harold, what do you think is gonna happen exactly? I walk into Rite Aid and start asking people looking for aspirin if they want to try something a bit harder? Supply is one thing, but I can't make up demand. Not to mention distribution, and we're gonna have a hard time getting Dawkins or anyone else to look the other way on anything like that coming into the county.”
“Oh, and you think automatic weapons are harmless? Who do you think is gonna buy those, Mrs. Hawkins? It's not gonna be hillbillies who want to plink a few tin cans. It's gonna be those same heavyweights from New Orleans, Tampa, and Houston you were talking about. Or maybe even some of those radical types that are always hijacking planes to Cuba or shooting soldiers in Belfast. You ready to sell guns to Andreas Baader?”
“It ain't perfect, Harold, but what in life is?” she retorted.
They turned the corner into the gravel parking lot of Hawkins Spirits, the headlight beams falling on a young man leaning up against the wall of the building. Harold stiffened, reached for the grease gun wedged between the seats, but Mrs. Hawkins laid a gentle hand on his wrist. “I recognize him. He works for Shoeshine. Besides, he's just a kid, can't be older than 16.”
They pulled to a stop in front of the kid. Harold turned the high beams on, doubtless blinding the poor kid, and laid a hand on the grease gun. Paranoid as ever. Mrs. Hawkins suppressed the urge to roll her eyes and rolled down the window, leaning out the passenger side. “You got a message from Mr. Simmons?” she called to the young man over the idling of the truck engine, trying to sound as pleasant and affable as possible.
The teen nodded. “He said he wants to talk. Said you'd know what about.”
Of course she did. Chicago was squeezing Harlow and those Redline Dogs too. So of course he wanted Shoeshine Simmons, his one-man State Department, to talk things over for the future. She appreciated the other man's sense in sending a messenger, as well. Phones could be tapped, notes lost, but a kid given a few dollars to memorize a phrase that was meaningless to them was never going to make it to court.
“Well, young man, I greatly appreciate you coming down here with that message. You go back to Mr. Simmons and tell him he's welcome to come down to my store tonight if he wants to talk things over.” She motioned for Harold to cut the lights and engine as she stepped down out of the pickup, reaching into her slacks for her keys. “Come on in, son. It's gonna be a long hot drive back, why don't we open up the cooler and get you a nice cold coke for the road. Or hell, you've done a man's job, let's make that a beer. A three-two, don't want you running yourself off the road.”
The teen shyly and politely muttered some thanks, awkwardly and hesitantly grabbed a Pepsi from one of the cold cabinets before jumping into a battered old Pontiac and taking off, doubtlessly heading back to report to Shoeshine. Harold waited until the sound of the car died in the distance before turning back to Mrs. Hawkins. “You're really just gonna stay here and wait for them to show up? What if it's a trap?”
She shrugged. “There's no love lost between us, but if Harlow wanted to kill me he's had years to do it. No, they're coming to me because they think I'm either going to be easier to talk to or easier to push around than the men. All there is to it.”
“I'm calling the Jagger brothers for security. Telling them to bring over their shotguns.”
Mrs. Hawkins once again fought the urge to roll her eyes, but recognized that one day these precautions might not be too excessive. “Don't get the Jaggers. Their, uh, points of view regarding gentlemen of color are not the kind I want to mix with shotguns and negotiations. If you really insist on having the Secret Service around call Angel Nunez and his cousins. Tell him $50 and a bottle per head for an hour's work, they'll come right down. In the meantime, I'm just gonna sit and wait for Shoeshine Simmons to come here so we can talk like civilized people. And while you're on the phone, maybe make sure Ronnie got those people their free cases of whiskey.”
As if to punctuate her point, she sat down and pulled the magazine from her back pocket, beginning to read. Harold looked as though he was about to say something, but went to use the phone in back.
Mrs. Hawkins found herself once again staring at the diagrams of automatic rifles. This was the right call, surely.
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