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Slaughterhouse: Bloody Remains
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It had been almost two years since David "Look Out!" Harris and David Tremaine had climbed into the Shattered-n-Bloody's only Bullet, fired up the big V8 and left a trail of shredded tires and feces-splattered seats all the way to Sarsfield.

Operations here had never panned out for the S-n-B crew. Oh sure, they'd hired on a few gangers since arriving and had ventured beyond the gates once or twice...okay, once and had learned their lesson real fast.

"Never get out of the boat." had quoted Brandon "Shady" Glade, their self-appointed 'leader' way down south here, upon his and Harris' nearly ill-fated scout, which had gotten their newly-built Apache shot out from under them.

Since then, the small crew had spent their time buying and selling and (sometimes) using hired transport to haul equipment up North for the Shattered' crew. Comms' were few and far between, although their Boss; Julie "The Horror" Baca, kept them informed enough. Loyalty and fear did the rest.

Not a one of them had ever considered leaving S-n-B. And they'd been pretty up-front with their Boss when it came to their dealings...mostly. Oh sure, they'd been tempted a couple times to take risks with the cash their Boss made sure they had enough of; but nothing stupid enough to get them one to the back of the head...until now.

It was one of those things you only read about in the funny papers. They'd purchased a pair of HMG's, an FOJ and a MD'er to pack into their new Apache and Land Runner, all in preparation for...FINALLY...getting the hell out of Sars' and back to civilization...which, their Boss kept telling them, was going to happen very soon.

They'd taken their receipt from the Ferrario Bro's shop and rolled their 26' box truck around back to the loading dock, where they were met with something that explained why inbreeding was not a good idea.

They wondered whether or not this was one of the progeny of the Ferrario Bro's...but nobody wanted to venture a guess...just in case it...er, he, was.

"Hi there." Glade said, as he bent to unlatch the cargo truck's doors. "We've got some stuff to pick up."

He handed the receipt to elephant-boy and tried to keep the smile on his face and his lunch in his stomach. He'd never known his parents, but silently thanked them for 10 toes and 10 fingers and only one nose. "Take your time." he added.

The guy(?) said something that sounded like "...only take a minute." as he walked...shambled...limped? away.

"Ya...no rush." Sammy "Le Grande" Rios said. "Santa madre de dios...why don't he just eat a bullet?"

Nobody had laughed, because Sammy hadn't been joking. "Can it..." Glade had said. "Let's just get our sh_t and get out of here."

Two minutes later, it returned pushing a large 4-wheeled dolly that held 4 rough-made shipping crates. The Shattered crew never loaded anything so fast.

"Sign here." the dock-thing had said.

"You got it...thanks." their top-dog had said, scribbling something on the sheet before thrusting it back. "Let's boogie."

The gangers had piled into the van after slamming shut and latching the doors. Nobody said anything for about a minute after they pulled away from the dock...not until William Fiqueroa, one of their drivers, had slammed down an armored window and leaned out to yakk up all over the side of the van.

The comments ranged from sheer amazement nobody had shot the thing down by mistake when they'd first seen it, to making fun of Fiq' for tossing up breakfast.

Once back at their smallish HQ, they unloaded and started unpacking the equipment. Five minutes into it, Tremaine exclaimed "Holy sh_t! Bend me over and call me Sally...uh...guys!!! GUYS!!!!"

As one their heads came up...hammers were dropped...crow bars readied for whatever attack had come upon them...then they saw their compadre just standing there staring down into one of the crates.

"What?" "Shady" Glade said...nearly yelling, but trying to restrain himself and show some sense of leadership. "Geez Tremaine...calm the hell down!"

Tremaine's right arm came slowly up, his hand curling up...the index finger pointing down into the crate. As the rest of the gangers walked over to stand over the crate, 4 pairs of eyes went wide, four different barely mouthed exclamations wafted into the still air. Fiqueroa pissed himself...the right leg of his pants darkening.

Inside the crate...which should have held a heavy machine gun...laid a 240mm vehicle mounted mortar. "Open the other one." Glade said...a slight quaver to his voice.

It took a second, but Harris grabbed the crow bar from Fiqueroa's hand and 10 second later was tearing the boards off the other crate. Dust filled the air and they all leaned in to look.

"I think I just messed myself." said Harris.

"Ya, well you're not alone." said Glade...pointing at Fiqueroa's pants. "I might have squirted a little myself."

That comment broke the sombreness...Tremaine chuckled, then said "What do we do now?"

"Sell the bitches." Fiqueroa chirped.

"We gots to tell Julie..." suggested Rios. "We don't...she finds out...we're all dead men."

"We might be dead anyways..." Glade said. "Ferrario figures out stumpyboy out back slid us the wrong gear...and we don't say anything...our asses will be Most Wanted #1."

"Ya, but on the other hand...look at the crates...they're marked wrong." noticed "Look Out!" Harris, kneeling down and holding up the intact crate top. "I don't think they know."

"Santa madre de dios." repeated Sammy Rios. "We're rich."

The rest of the crew knew what he meant. These things went for high 6...low 7 figures on the market. Nobody knew they had them. They could always grab a couple HMG's later...after the sale. They'd never have to work another day in their lives. They could start...well, anything...with that kind of cash.

"She'll hunt us down." Glade said what they were all thinking. "No way we come up with that kind of scratch and word doesn't get back to Baca...and you know, they don't call her "The Horror" because of the way she looks."

"We're so screwed..." chimed in Fiqueroa...blushing now, having just noticed he'd wet himself. "What're we gonna do now, man? Game over...GAME OVER!"

And then there came the scraping of a door against the gritty build up of sand blown against it and as one, they all looked up...hands going to weapons...Harris making a lame attempt to slide the rickety crate top back into place to hide their 'find.'

......................... vet wv
Posted Nov 3, 2009, 6:01 pm