Listen to the firearms trainin' could save me in a pinch
[3] You hop in the back of the car. Annoyingly, you end up in the middle. Aerie prods you in the ribs until you move over, ending up squashed up against Elixas. It is
not the most comfortable way to ride. God, how much aftershave does this guy wear?!
Drive the vehicle, follow Manuel's directions. If Manuel doesn't give directions, well, then just drive around until he tells me to stop. If something gets in my way, turn.
Not giving anyone time to object, you state your intent and hurry over to the driver's seat.
[4] Yep, you manage, with a little bit of confusion, to get the car's engine humming readily as the others pile in. You glance to Manuel for some sort of recognition, but he just sits there, waiting for the rest to get themselves in the car.
"Could you show us how to shoot on horseback?"
Listen in to the Deadeye, try to note down how he holds his gun if he's demonstrating.
[4] You also hop in the back, securing yourself a comfortable spot with a few jabs to the ribs of those next to you.
Get into car and listen to firearms guy.
[6] You climb quickly into the car, leaning fowards to catch any pearls of wisdom your 'teacher' might happen to share. Unfortunately, this attentive posture makes the back seat even more cramped than it was before. Jacob jostles against you just about every time the car takes a corner. God, how much aftershave does this guy wear?!
With everyone else inside, all eyes are on the large figure of Clayton. Just how the heck is he supposed to fit in here?!
That question receives an unexpected answer. He's not. Just as the giant is stooping to try and cram himself through the door, an angry male voice shouts from just up the street.
"That's him! That's the big ape, that's the guy what kiboshed my new suit!" Clayton looks up and sees the young fellow he traumatised earlier, clad in his undershirt and looking rather more brave in the company of several friends.
He turns away from the car as they rush at him, ready for a scrap.
[5] vs
[5+1] The first of them reaches him, and the big guy puts up his meaty forearms and blocks his wild, rather pathetic punch.
That one backs off, clutching his hand, but there are plenty more where he came from.
At that point, Manuel slaps a palm on the dash and nods at the street ahead, prompting McBurney to ease the car tentatively fowards.
He gets the hang of it after a few stops and starts and the sedan quickly gains speed; the last the group see of Clayton is
[5+1] the big lug fending off several of his attackers with broad sweeps of his arms, scattering them across the pavement. He's pretty badly outnumbered, though. Things don't look too good for him. The O'Dolan's security'll probably step in, though. ...Probably.
****
Chapter One- A Lesson in Life (And ending it)
The car ride is fairly uneventful. Manuel, electing to remain silent for the duration, gives directions simply with the occasional grunt, rapping a hand on the dash and nodding or pointing just where they need to go. McBurney doesn't seem to be the most experienced of drivers; the car wobbles back and forth a bit and often slows down almost to the point of stopping, but he does alright. He avoids causing any crashes, at least.
The scenery passing by is not overly interesting- unpainted, brown-brick buildings loosely arranged into blocks, broken by several vacant lots and fallen ruins, and punctuated by the occasional weathered wooden building. Everything is bathed in the dim, hazy light of early Autumn, and further in to the sprawl one can see the taller, more impressive buildings of the Uptown suburbs. Out the other way, well, buildings give way to fields, give way to the horizon, and in the far distance the blueish silhouettes of a mountain range.
This is, of course, the poor side of town. Few people are to be seen around here, and those that are out and about in this part of town (on a Saturday) look fairly wretched and destitute. Here and there gaps between buildings have been filled with crude wooden shanties, or semi-collapsed ruins will show signs of habitation, their pitiful occupants using tarpaulin for a roof.
These sad scenes of the Depression pass for a long time in heavy silence, interrupted only by the occasional
*smack of a hand on the dash and Manuel's grunted commands. Each person is left to their own various thoughts for a while, until finally Aerie speaks up.
"So..."She feels a bit uncomfortable breaking the silence in this strange car-load of people.
"Could you show us how to shoot on horseback?"Manuel doesn't dignify that with a response, and the silence resumes for the rest of the trip.
After about twenty minutes of driving, Manuel once again signals to McBurney, jabbing a finger towards a rundown brick building up ahead, seemingly once painted with some gaudy advertisement for stock feed. These days the bright paint is faded and flaking off. Really sums up this part of town, to be honest.
"In here." It's almost a shock to actually hear the greaser speak for once.
The young Irish fellow in the driver's seat pays no notice, however, his hands firmly on the steering wheel as he concentrates on guiding the car into a small alleyway between the building and its smaller neighbour. Concentrates so hard, infact, that he doesn't notice Manuel motioning for him to stop until the wiry old man grabs him by the shoulder.
Marion slams on the brakes. Everyone's head meets the nearest hard surface in front of them.
[3] Those in the backseat end up sprawled awkwardly together far more close than is comfortable. McBurney is just starting to stammer a (slightly dazed) apology when Manuel shoves open his door and swings his feet out, standing and heading around to the back of the car.
A moment later, the Mexican's young students have disentangled themselves and stand attentively before him.
He looks you over with an expression of what seems to be disdain on his features. Finally, he speaks.
"So, let's get thees straight," He says, and by God he certainly does have an accent in that strange, gravelly voice,
"You don't like me, and I am already don't like you. So I am getting paid for teaching you some theengs, so I'll do that, you learn, and then we not see each other no more. Okay?"He doesn't wait for a response, instead turning to pop open the trunk. Inside it is packed with a motley assortment of handguns.
He nods to you lot,
"All of you grab a gon," Then he steps towards a small line drawn in the dirt floor of the alley, pulling forth his own pistol from the back of his waistband.
It's a fancy looking thing, plated with shining metal with some kind of lettering engraved down the side. Altogether it's a world apart from the selection in the trunk, which includes:
[......] - A Browning Hi-Power Practical, an semi-automatic with a glossy chrome frame, seemingly featuring extensive modifications installed by a previous owner
- A Detective Special, snub-nosed revolver in pristine condition
- A battered, scarred specimen of a Colt M1911, its iron frame dented, half one side of the grip broken off and a few notches along the slide.
- A heavy, bulky looking Smith & Wesson revolver, it's surfaces worn by what must be a lot of use.
- A barely-functional Browning semi-auto, one side of its casing buckled inwards by what must have been a direct hit from a bullet.
- Another M1911 in far better shape, a gleaming dark-coloured, deadly-looking piece of metal.
Leaving you to pick your weapons, Manuel stands before the next alleyway in a relaxed, balanced shooter's stance that belies his frail appearance. He raises his gun in one fluid motion, looking down the sights heedless of his sunglasses, and
[...] blasts a bottle set atop a fence down the end of the alley into shards, another bullet toppling the next one to the ground a split-second later.
He turns back towards the group, raises his still-smoking pistol and demonstrates a few maneovres, ejecting the magazine, slipping two new bullets into it from a jacket pocket and sliding it back in and readying the gun once more. He does all this with slow, deliberate movements, apparently so that even thickheads like you lot can grasp the technique.
He then repeats the process with a revolver from somewhere on his person, tucking it away again before watching you lot expectantly.
At least you think he's watching you expectantly. It's kinda hard to tell with those damned shades of his.
>Right, you lot! Grab a gun, step up to the range and try and shoot some bottles off that fence down the alley.
>Try not to shoot yourself in the foot or anything.
ARGH IT'S A WALL OF TEXT. I apologise.
I just wanted to get this turn posted. The next one will be more... Concise.
Around 1521 words, maybe a bit less. Again, sorry.
Author
Topic: The Ballad of "Pianola" Ambrose (Read 17294 times)