Today's action begins with cheap booze at the Devil Rats Bar and Grill.

It's just inside the depths of the Barrens, close to the highway. Low life, sleaze ball dive, frequented by organleggers, bikers, and poor ass drunks.. The kind of people that would just as soon cut your throat and sell your liver, if they could stab you from behind, drug you, or have Huge Eddie (the door guy) knock your ass out.

You've recently found the place, and have found it has a reputation for cheap booze, strong drinks, NO FUCKING QUESTIONS, andvery little eye contact. Inside it's dark as night and solid smoke. Fights and knifings are not uncommon, you've seen one, but what is common is the surly, the drunk, and the quiet. You see the booze, but see no sign of sims or BTL's.

There is no grill, but there's a hot plate with a big pot of greasy, nasty, soy chili. Not too spicy. Not real good. An acquired taste. Rumor has it the chili pot just keeps getting added to.
There's a hand scrawled sign above the counter. “You puke it up, you clean it up.�

The same guy's been behind the bar the three times you've been here. He looks 65, bitter or angry or both, and is heavy smoker and drinker (just watch him for 5 minutes).

Devil Rats is a dank, smokey, nasty, and clearly dangerous place. But it appeals to you the privacy it silently demands.

Huge Eddie walks back from the pisser, looking totally at home as an alcoholic troll walking back to his post at the stool just inside the front door.

You have a round of shot glasses in front of you full of something clear that you suspect a jet could run on. There's no walking in this place without buying something, and quickly. Who knows what will happen if you wait longer than the dirty look lasts.

It's 2:12pm. There is a scattered crowd of professional drinkers.

What are you going to do now?

Devil Rats was Dexter's kind of drinking hole. For starters, it had at least four standing walls, and a roof that seemed mostly waterproof. For the old merc, that was already a lot. Even more than he would have asked a few years back. Come to think of it, this place was even a little higher up on the drinking hole scale: odds of getting shelled by mortar while you were having your beer were pretty darn slim.

Pinching the tiny shot glass between the fingers of his meat hand, Dexter threw it's content at the back of his throat, carefully making sure not to inhale as he did so. It stung. It stung like a motherfucker. It was like trying to swallow up a cup of hot nail masserated in floor varnish. Whiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, Dexter's eyes went off from his table and to the room around him.

From what he could tell, a good part of these guys were packing... Not necessarly fire arms, but packing something. About a week ago, some guy had gotten an icepick in his skull. Primitive, but creative. That and it did take some serious balls to jam one of those in a smucks' skull.

Without contemplating it this time around, the second shot went up and away. It stung a little less this time around... probably on the account that the first one had probably anestetised him. It was barely 2 in the afternoon, and Dexter felt dead tired. He had spent most of his morning at the municipal court, playing a sort of game he wasn't used to, and never would. Somehow, Sue's lawyer had apparently gotten some information that Dexter had found himself knee deep in some brawl outside a club. How he had learned that, it was anyone's guesses. Of course, the fucking rat had decided it would be a golden opportunity to take what little shared custody he had left, and so, Sue had dragged him to court, yet again. The judge had looked mostly bored, and listened to everyone's side of the question... even though Dexter hadn't said much. Stuck between the lawyer smiling like a shark at him, Sue's eyes gunning him down and the judge yawning his head off, all the old merc had done was sigh and shake his head. This was just too much for him. It was killing him, a little bit every day. He was a man who had survived hundreds and hundreds of battle. He had completed missions were the odds were beyond “stacked agaisn't you�. For all intent and purposes, he was not supposed to be alive. And yet, after going through all of this, divorce was killing him.

“What a sucker way to go down� said Dexter to himself, lifting yet another shooter.

Sitting alone in the darkness of this bar, as your chummers haven't showed up yet, gives you a sense that the world doesn't give a drek about the individual. In fact, it doesn't even notice your existence. Looking around you see several individuals that obviously agree with the world that they don't even exist, but their shells just continue to drag on.

Dexter has the thought that his judge would piss his pants in this place. Self-importance has a hard time accepting it's lack of relevance.

Dexter feels the pull of the space in his soul, demanding yet another drink to dull the lights.

I pull up outside of the bar a little late, as usual. We live down the road, and knowing Dex, he's already put a few done. Back into the place, squeak the tires a bit when I do (just 'cause), and jump out of the bed of the truck.

I'm pissed as hell in general. Put a big hissing cobra on my arm, because it looks cool. Wipe down the jumpsuit. Got oil all over it, because I had to change all the tires and the oil on a couple of the forklifts at work. In fact, I remember my right hand real quick, and pull the clamp off and stick it in my bag. Got plenty of room, 'cause the key to the city is locked up in the tool kit.

Grab the bag and walk in. Nod at the bouncer. See Dex in the corner, making himself small. Look for chicks as I walk past the bouncer, towards Dex.

Huge Eddie looks down his big alcoholic-red nose at you, unimpressed with your attitude or your little cobra.

Par for the course in this place...plenty of attitude, plenty of keep it on the low down. You get the sense that he looked you over and knows what you got.

You do in fact see some chicks. There's a pair of hot-stim whores sullenly but hopefully passing winks around. If you're into 40 year old, heavily used and mightily undernourished chicks, it's your night.

A few empty bottles of beer were busy dressing the table up. By the looks of things, Dexter could have been in, drinking with an entire fire team. But no, he was most definitely alone, and just inebriated enough to be a little more grumpy than usual. With his left hand sprawled in from of him, his chrome cyber hand was making ways between each fingers, jamming the point of a combat knife that looked enough to skin a crocodile. It was an old trick he had used more than countless times to impress green runners. They all thought it was so god damn badass. Dexter thought it was amusing to impress the younger crowds, looking at them trying to duplicate the feat, only to sever part of their finger in the process. Now, it didn't impress anyone anymore. Any asshole with an off the shelf prosthesis could do it. The SOTA curve was a bitch.

From behind their chromed protective casings, and from under his baseball cap, Dexter spotted Jesse from across the room. When the dwarf was finally at his table, the old merc took the big knife and gestured it toward his roommate.

“Was 'bout fuckin' time yaw got here, boy.� scolded the old soldier “Am here all by my lonesome, drinkin' my ass pissed.�

His eyebrows went off a bit, as he apparently spotted something on his knife... or about it...

“Ya know,� he started, shaking the big blade in front of him to make the point “this knife here is probably 'bout as ol' as you.�

He parted his heavy ballistic jacket, putting the blade away in it's sheath.

“Got it from a spick fella down south.�

"Hi, pop ... e." Drawl the second syllable out for as along as I can. Fucking asshole old guy. Does this every time. "Whatever. "They got any beers left?"

Don't feel like the old 'have pops shake my hand and then pop it off" ritual. So instead I settle for the obligatory insult to parentage and historical pedigree. "Oh, you grab it from your mom when she was trying to abort you with it?"

Simple and easy. Look around for something to bring me a beer. In between that, the ritualized insulting, and the obligatory bitching about life, should settle the first half an hour of the evening. Then maybe I'll pick a fight with some douchebag. Ya know, because. Don't feel like breaking into the junkyard tonight and trying to steal more metal to kit out my truck with.

There's a lot of bars in the world where flashing a knife around and ruining the furniture with it would cause a stir.

It seems that here, no one even notices.

"Oh, you grab it from your mom when she was trying to abort you with it?"

Grabbing the only bottle with something left in it, Dexter took a big swing from it, grinning with his crooked theeth behind.

"Fucking A, Jesse." he says, lauging and wiping his mouth with the back of his meat hand.

He puts the beer down.

"Speaking of moms," Dexter starts, motioning toward the two whores "I did know yours still worked here."

Deadpn. "Oh, good, so my brand new sister or brother will get a knife of their very own too. Maybe the bitch will bring me a beer to go with the chlamydia she gave me."

Since Dex and I have absolutely nothing new to talk about, switch to mild instigation. Cover my ass first - hand & arm signal the bartender for two tall beers and two fingers of soydka. Gots to pay to play.

Turn to one of the hookers and shout (just loudly enough to be clearly heard, not so loud as to draw any more attention than (hopefully) a beer bottle thrown in my direction): "Yo, mom! Pops here needs a couple more beers, and maybe he'll show you the knife trick in exchange!"

Apparently the stimwhores don't consider themselves to be mothers, because neither turn to the summons.

The bitter looking bartender makes his own hand signal, pointing up towards the grimy ceiling with only his middle finger, which he then turns down to point at the bar, indicating that this is where one would get the juice.

It's pretty dark in here, so you may or may not notice that heads did turn, if only momentarily at the noise.

Dexter laughed sincerly. Jesse might have been young, and a dwarf on top of it all, but he was a damn funny kid. Far from the sort of kid you'd LIKE to have as your own, but a very entertaining one.

"Ya get yourself in a brawl kid, and you're on your own! I'm sure theres at least one guy here who she might have called "Daddy" a few times".

He brought his beer to his lips, and grunted heavily when he discovered it was all but full. Actually.... it was dry empty. Grunting like only a thirsty Sergent Major could, Dexter took his base ball cap and flipped it backwards, letting some on the bar's dim light shine on his tired features.

"Alright Mac, I don't want to be an asshole and put the lid on your massive parading here, but we need to figure out how the fuck we're going to pay this month's rent."

Dexter pushed some of the empty bottles aside, clearing some room between Jesse and himself.

"I mean, unloading boats all day long ain't going to get you that Westwind ya know?"

Dagda finishes lacing up his tall combat boots with a grunt, then picks up his SMG from the kitchen bench, checks the action and slides it into the leather shoulder holster concealed under his armored jacket. He briefly glances into the mirror, checking out his appearance, the plain jacket, heavy black boots, worn jeans and plain white t-shirt, the holster mostly concealed by the jacket, then concentrates for a moment, a brief flicker as reality changes, the holster gone, his skin tone perceptibly darker, a tattoo over his right eye.



Dagda grins, mentally 'unloading' the spell into a focus, and strolls at the door, his BMW silently rolling out of the garage.

Sometime later

I hate this shithole Dagda thinks to himself as he shoulders past the heavyset bouncer with a grunt, his commlink authenticating himself to the pubs low grade systems, and his gun sliding past the MAD scanner. It reminds me of Russia

He catches sight of Dexter and Jesse, then just leans over the bar and grabs a bottle of vodka off one of the shelves, his commlink transferring the money to the bartener, picking up three glasses and sliding into the booth next to the boys, pouring himself a drink.

"So.. what's happening?"

To the best of your knowledge, nothing beeps, whirls, alarms, or otherwise indicates you've been picked up. Certainly, Huge Eddie doesn't make a move towards you, and there are no guns pointing at you that you can discern.

The bartender keeps his scowl on his face as he serves his drinks. He gives you a nod, possibly because you bought more than one drink.

Dag sits down. He looks out of place. Ignores the rituals. Gauche.

"Dex here won the lottery, and I'm trying to convince him that the Friars Minor of Turka-fucking-lakastan are the best charity to donate the money to, on the grounds of a plenary indulgence issued on the year of the dumbass."

Wait for him to catch up. In the meantime, grab one of his glasses and pour myself a shot.

"We're figuring out where to make some money. Want to lend us your keys for the night? We'll give her back. Pinky promise."

Dagda grins broadly at Jesse, then says affectionately "Fuck off short-ass. Get a haircut and a real job"

Dagda knocks back the first finger of vodka before pours himself and dexter another, pushing it across the table "No leads? We could always just go make some arms dealers day."

Dexter goes for the shot, altought he's a little less agile with this one than the previous ones. The man might be all hard edge and thicked skin... but the ammount of drinking going down this afternoon was starting to kick mighty in.

He looks over at Jesse.

“He's right about the hair cut ya know? Wouldn't hurt once in a while to look somewhat respectable�

The old merc gestured to Dag and himself “Ya know, folks like ourselves?�

“So, I take it none of ya boys' got any jobs lined up... So much for shacking up with the town's hawt shit!�

He finally takes his hat off, running his meat hand up and down his skull to shake some numbness away.

“A'righ'. A got this guy down the Fort. Friend of mind from back in the days. Works Supply for the boys in green. Good stand up guy. Says things fall of trucks and disappear from warehouses all the fuckin' time. Am sure there's some folks round anywhere who'd be happy to get mil issued bang bang, ya know? But hey, thats a fuckin bad idea all round... But tsall I can think of right now.�

He looks down at his dried up shooter.

“Unless ya guys feel like doing some free of charge wetwork.�

The obvious comebacks to Dag's reflexive insult scroll through my brain. None are original, and Dex set me up for the now all too obvious one. Call it a loss. Anyway, gotta get Dex out of his not-so-manic-mood.

"Man, if my boys had jobs lined up I woulda told you already. Wasn't thinking about it this afternoon when I was getting chassis greas squirted all over me."

"Could always go for stealing some scrap out of the junkyard. Cooked up some blueprints for a nice skid plate for my truck yesterday."

Ninja means that I'm watching from the darkness, waiting for the opportunity to act.

Dagda shrugs "Not sure if thats gonna cut it. Any word on the street?" at the same time Dagda leans back in his chair, using his trodes to mentally flick up an AR overlay and punches out a terse request to Johnno.

Anything happening on the street man? I'm currently on the beach with a team and looking for some work. We'll travel if thats required.

Talk to you soon.

He then slides that out another window and messages Shandra I'm looking for a line on any deals - I've got a pretty good acquisitions team ready to go, if you have anything that needs work/ We'll travel, but if its overseas we'll need support on the ground. Talk to you later.

"I've dropped my guys a line, but I'm not to optimistic. One of them will be asleep. You guys know anyone?"

"Fuck that, gentlemen I know are about as useful for coming up with money as an extra arm sticking out of my ass." Think about that for a second, as a couple ways I could make money with an extra arm in my butt do come to mind, but I will stand with my position.

"I'll call them, but nothing's likely to happen."

"When it comes down to it, I'm down for whatever. I really want to pick up some stuff for my car. And a saw these fucking badass eyeband type things offered at the clinic... want me one of those... wish I knew a better cyberdoc." Restrain myself, before I launch into a tangent about more chrome.

Plug a call to Julio - his dumb ass trusts me. Maybe there's something nice at the dockyard to steal. Hey, man; I'm trying to figger out whether or not to come in tomorrow... we got anything coming in? I got a midterm at community college to prep for."

A brief flurry of automatic gunfire explodes outside (front door side facing the street), with the accompaniment of many bullets slamming into the wall. Simultaneously, the sound of petrol-burning engine motorbikes roar off down the street (had already been moving).

Look around for a second before I cringe from the gunfire - specifically, see what the troll at the door chooses to do. Instincts say get down, and I hop off the bar stool...

As I think about it, something immediately occurs to me - "oh, FUCK, my car!" Slam up my commlink and jump into the truck, try to see what's going on with it and out there.

In the moment the other two at your table react, Huge Eddie flinches and turns towards the door reaching into a hollow in the wall you hadn't noticed before and pulling out some sort of shiny bat. He hefts it to his shoulder, stays on his perch, and watches the door.

The bartender flinches down below the bar, and then comes up with a more than usually angry expression on his face.

Most everybody else in the bar flinches somehow or other, with various actions like reaching for weapons, but mostly protecting their drinks.

The two hookers seem not to notice.

About the time Dag and Dexter finish their initial reactions, the rest of the patrons that hadn't reacted finally move as their electrical impulses finally make it through the booze to their target receptors.

This is about the point Toad starts with his commlink.

Dexter had been just about to get his tired old self up from his seat and towards the bar when he heard the first shot. Actually, it was probably only around the third shot that he actually came to the conclusion that it was indeed gunfire, and not some old car backfiring in the street. He immediately forgot about his thirst, and somehow, the haze of drunkenness seemed ever so thin. Wide eyed and with his nervous system put on twitch, Dexter's training took over.

Seeing Jesse drop to the floor, and under the table, like a sac of sweaty potatoes, the old merc immediately shoved the table forward and over, tipping it over, sending tons of empty beer bottles flying, with little shooters jumping in the air like pretty shooting stars.

He had barely finished establishing their “homemade cover� when the shooting stopped, and something roared off into the night. One knee on the sticky floor and one hand on his Savalette Guardian, Dexter looked down toward Jesse, the dwarf huddling in a small ball next to him.

“Fuckin' Barrens...� he cringed under his breath.

He peered over his shoulder towards Dag, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“Check things out?� he said, nodding his head toward the outside.

Dagda reaches under his jacket, pulling out his SMG - still concealed by magic from the rest of the patrons.

"Yeah, probably a bad idea, but I'm bored, so lets go. I've got your back. You packing?"

As he speaks he closes his eyes and briefly focuses, the fetish under his shirt suddenly warm as he focuses his magic through it, astrally wrapping himself in a earthy web that sinks into his skin



then with a brief thought he ties the web of his magic to his second focus.

"Okay, I'm locked and loaded. Ready when you are."

Dexter gave something of an amused smile to Dag as he pulled the heavy pistol from it's hip holster.

“Ain't nothin' worst than a bored guy with a gun.�

Keeping himself at something of a low crouch, the Savalette Guardian held low and along his leg, Dexter started to cover the distance between their table and front door. With his free meat hand, the old Hawaiian shirt wearing merc gestured Huge Eddie to stay put. As he came closer to the door, he started to break right.

Dagda swiftly moves up behind Dexter, buttoning up his armored jacket and covering the rest of the forward arc with his SMG.

On your way out of your seats, Toad stays in his and seems intent on his commlink.

As you rise from your seats:

Huge Eddie stares intently at the door that his bat is in reach of.

The bartender rises up from behind the bar, cussing at the top of his haggard lungs "Frakkin Drek-eatin Mother Fraggin Cocksuckers!" (how come there's no made up word for that one?)
He bangs a long double barreled shot gun down on the counter and continues to curse and express a desire to kill those #*(@*#&('s

Toad activates his vehicle's sensor system and it starts to power up.

Dagda and Dexter both notice that they are the only one's rising and moving towards the front door.

Dexter motions to Huge Eddie but Huge Eddie isn't looking at him.

Everyone in the place (except maybe the hookers) hear the big bikes power off into the distance.

Dexter and Dagda move to the door and are within reach of it. Eddie notices that but doesn't stop you or say anything, his body balanced on the giant stool ready to move.

What do you do next?

Stacked next to the door, his right shoulder resting on the wall, Dexter brought his pistol slightly up. He could feel Dag's reassuring presence behind him, but he still didn't budge. When the big Skriatok gave him a single firm tap on the shoulder, Dexter went for it.

Opening the door as wide and as rapidly as he could, the old mercenary raised his weapon, wrapping both hands around its grip. Pistol leading the way, went straight through the door, immediately turning slightly right to cover his usual arc of fire. Hopefully, Dag would do as usual and take up the left one.

Jump straight into the truck and swivel the sensor turret around, try to figure out what's going on. Cue the warning lights to black out, clunk it in drive, but keep my 'foot' on the 'brake'

Dexter and Dagda rush out the the door, followed by the sounds of a still-cursing bartender.

They are greeted by 'fresh' air, and an empty street filled only with the sound of engines and taillights disappearing around a corner several streets down.

They are -NOT- greeted by a hail of gunfire from armed individuals waiting to mow down anyone running out the front door of the club.

A few random street types pick themselves up off the ground and/or stand up from behind vehicles and start getting back to their day.

Toad experiences his senses picking up a new feed. He swivels the sensor turret, and also picks up the disappearing tail lights.


D&D cover their fields of fire, ready to pull the trigger. Toad watches the lights vanish with his foot on the break, ready to go.

Dagda mentally patches though a voicenet to include Toad and Dexter

"What the hell was that about?"

Dexter straightened from his partial crouch, parted his jacket and reholstered his gun.

"Best guess; bored gang bangers."

Turning around, he reentered the bar, gesturing to Eddy that everything was ok.

While I'm in the truck, Run the internal diagnostics for my car, see if anyhting reports problems, and cue the RFID tags on all my equipment in the car to report back. Make sure they didn't steal anything.

My real body steps down and steps back outside. Start strolling towards mine, looking for bulletholes. "Yall wanna check your trucks?"

Dexter strolls back to their previous table, yawning his head off.

Dagda fires up his BMW's internal diganostics, then shrugs. "Bizarre shit." before following Dexter back to the table.

"Why the hell do clowns do that? Surely they could be off gun running or something for more money. Heck, thats how I got my start."

Toad's system reports back all green lights, and you find no damage or physical missings. You also notice that nobody else's vehicles seem to have taken damage.

Huge Eddie is holding the door open and peering out. He steps back in as D&D re-enter the bar, his back visible to them as he moves to get his bottle from the bar.

Between the bartender's cursing to no one in particular, he yells "I want those fraggers dead!" It's probably the only exercise he's gotten in a good long while, and he's sweating. He takes a deep breath, and coughs lungily a few times. That slowing down of oxygen intake seems to be the end of his passionate verbal rampage.

The few individuals inside that reacted with more than raised eyebrows, are settling back down into their shadowy corners.

I catch the bartender's comment as I walk back in. Grabbed the master key from the back of the truck, and am making little effort to conceal it. Nod to Huge Eddie, hope he doesn't mind.

Walk up by the bartender and smile a bit wide. "Fuck, times like this I want a beer. Pour yourself something on my tab. Assholes can ruin your day too. You know who them fuckwads were? Coulda shot my bumper off. Don't like that kinda shit neither."

Dagda doesn't drop his spells for the moment, sliding up to the bar next to toad, silently listening to the conversation.

Now seated back to their previous table, Dexter stared picking up each beer bottle... looking for one with something still there to drink.

The still livid bartender grips the bar, venting his anger into his white knuckles. Without moving or responding to Toads monologue, he takes a few moments and then seems to willfully calm down.

"That's it." he grates through clenched teeth. "That's fraggin it."

He looks over at Huge Eddie, and then scans people at the bar. "Frag them." he announces. "Enough of those cocksucken parasites! Let it be known...I'm now offering 200 nuyen per head fer them soysuckers."

His voice raises "They want to take over my bar?? Frag them to dirty hell! The world no longer gots a use for the bone suckers. And it won't even notice their absence. 200 nuyen a head!"

He takes a couple deep raspy breaths into his apparently iffy lungs and seems happy with himself.

Dagda leans over the bar and grins at the bartender

"If you keep that up, you're going to burst a blood vessel, so guess helping you out might even be of medical benefit. Who are 'they' anyway?"

"Frag off. When I want lip from you I'll drop my zipper."

You've been here enough to not take that personally.

He continues, a little calmer. "The Bone Suckers. I just fraggin said that. They been bustin my balls fer months, and it's been escalatin. They'll walk in here and shoot us up. No fraggin more."

And he pounds his fist on the bartop once.

Now completely surrounded by total and flat out dryness, the old merc flipped his baseball cap forward again, pushing himself off his chair with a heavy grunt. The way he lifted himself made it seem like Dexter was pushing 60. In fact, listening his old war stories, he might as well have been 80.

Leaning (well, almost sprawling) on the bar, resting on his forearms, hands joint, Dexter sniffed heavily.

“I reckon you might wanna watch what you say man.� started Dex at the bartender's attention.

“Throwing offers like that might get someone killed, you know...�

Cracking his lower jaw from side to side, Dexter gave a sidelong glance to Dag to said long enough about what he was thinking. He had a fair idea what was brewing in the back of Dagda's mind.... but they weren't THAT in need of money. Two hundred nuyen, per head, for what was almost wet work wasn't anywhere near enough.

His eyes still on Dag, Dexter spoke in his usual southern drawl.

“Fuck man, for 200 hundered a piece, that wouldn't even fuckin slap them across the face.�

He looked back at the bartender.

“How about you give us 500, we'll drive by and shout harsh words.� he said with a chuckle, giving a hard slap across Dagda's shoulder.

Dagda meets Dexters gaze for a moment, then radiopathically messages over his trode net to both Gotcha. You can handle the old man, Toad, you got any idea who these bone suckers are? I'd feel better about 500 nuyen a head if I know they are not a bunch of mafia gun runners. A damn sight better.

With that Dagda turns his attention back to the barkeeper and Dexter, still half watching the door.

The bartender looks at you and grunts. "It's gonna get a lot of fraggers killed. $200 a head'll get me a barrel full of livers an if you think yer too good fer that price, there's plenty that'll rape their grandpa for half that."

Huge Eddie guffaws at that.

The bartender eyes the three of you, seemingly taking your measure.

A joking smile still on his face, Dexter turned his face slightly toward Dagda. He raised bushy gray eyebrows over his enclosed cyber eyes, his lips pursing out in a "meh" mimic. The old soldier was no negotiation expert, but he had to give the bartender some points for being right. Some people, especially down here in the barrens, would indeed cap you, rape your grandma and then sell her body to the local street doc... for a beer. A lukewarm, flat, tasteless beer.

Without even saying a word, Dexter's body language was enough to express his current attitude, which could have been summed up in "well, what the hell..." Something the bartender had just said had indeed sparked an idea in the back of the gun for hire's mind... All he hoped was that the rest of the crew would fall in line with what he had to offer.

He looked back at the bartender, throwing him his own reflection in his mirror eye casings.

"You ready to put your money where that big fucking mouth of yours is?"

You get snarled back at. "I put my money where I want my money to be and I don't see no fragger bleedin on my floor. **cough cough** You gonna grow some balls an get my floor dirty?"

Dexter chuckles a bit behind his beard. Grow some balls.... If only this poor shmuck had any idea who Dexter had been, and still was.

He leaned sideways on the bar, now facing Dagda.

"Can you believe this fucking guy?" he said, jerking his head toward the bartender.

After a few seconds of mulling over it, Dexter finally spoke.

"A'right. You better have the dough when we came back."

He leaned a bit over the bar, taking on his "I'm fucking dead serious don't you dare fuck with me" face.

"Cause if you don't, we'll add you to the pile."

Pushing himself off, he gave a few "pat" on Dagda's shoulder with his meat hand.

"Right boy, lets get this show on the road."