<< The date is March 26, 2064. The time is 7:03 PM. An entire family of orks was just burned alive in their homes by a couple of razorheads who fancied themselves to be part of Humanis Policlub. The local police knew about their plan, but didn't feel like sparing the manpower to help a bunch of orks. The ork community is enraged, and a group of especially furious greenskins are plotting to firebomb a nearby Lonestar station house and kill every copper inside in the name of justice. Welcome to Seattle. >>

Sonny liked guns. He considered himself to be a connoiseur of firearms - their sleek, deadly design excited him, and he relished the adrenaline rush that follows every time he gets an opportunity to test his skills against another gunslinger. His father had been a cop back when he was still alive, and he had taught Sonny how to use his first pistol at the tender age of eleven. It was love at first sight. He could ping soda cans with deadly accuracy within a month of training. By the time he was thirteen, he was matching his old man point for point at the local firing range. When he hit fifteen, the hottest gossip around the precinct was ole' Connor's kid, a drek-hot young gun who could shoot the balls off a fly at a hundred feet and drew faster than God himself. His extraordinary talent for shooting had gotten him by when his old man bought the farm, and he was using it to get him by now.

It was unfortunate for Santiago Chavez that Sonny liked guns, because otherwise the two-bit street dealer might still be alive. The sniveling weasel had tried pass off his cheap third-rate blood powder as the real deal, but Sonny's momma didn't raise no sucker. Chavez thought that his two troll bodyguards were adequate protection. He was down on his knees begging for his life five seconds later with both the trogs stone cold dead at his feet. If there was anything Sonny hated, it was men who bawl like bitches when they realize that their life is next in line on the boat to Hell. It had been so satisfying to put a bullet in the prick's throat.

Sonny whistled to himself as he walked down the corridor to the door of his rundown apartment in the slums. It had been a good day - he got the chance to waste someone and score six hundred cred worth of hard drugs along the way. He fished the key out of one of the many pockets of his torn bomber jacket and opened the door.

"Daddy's home," he announced to the house.

He made a beeline to the kitchen, tossing down his backpack on the table and throwing his coat on a chair. He opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a can of beer. Humming happily, he made himself a ham sandwich, slapped it onto a plate, and made his way out of the kitchen.

He saw them the instant he set foot into the living room. As always, his hands moved faster than his mind. Before he even registered their faces, his plate of lunch shattered on the floor and his left hand blurred down to his spring-loaded belt holster. His wrist snapped up and he made three shots from the hip.

Pow! Pow! Pow!

Sonny blinked as the troll he had been aiming at stood unfazed. He wondered briefly if he had missed. It seem unlikely - he misses maybe once in a blue moon, and never at this distance. Then he saw the bullets lying on the floor a few feet away from his boots. They were mishapened, as if they struck an invisible barrier, and still smoking hot. Sonny growled.

He assessed the situation for the first time. There was a brunette dressed in business clothes sitting on his couch, flanked on one side by a burly green troll and on the other by a human man with a military buzzcut and a dangerous expression on his face. The woman was favoring him with an amused smile. He thought about turning to run, but decided that it wouldn't do any good. He had been outplayed. The first tendrils of fright began to creep into his heart, and Sonny coped with them the same way he always did.

"Who the fuck are you?" he shouted. "What the fuck are you doing in my house?"

The woman shook her head. "There's no need to get vulgar, Mr. Delray. I apologize for this...theatrical encounter. I wish we had more time to get acquainted with each other, but the time has come when I have no other choice. Don't be afraid - we're not here to do you any harm."

Sonny laughed crazily. "Do me harm? Who do you think you are, bitch?"

The woman smiled. "I'm the person who's about to offer you a very lucrative business proposition."

"Whatever you have in mind, I ain't doing it," Sonny said. "The door's to your left - but I think you know that already, eh?"

"The rewards are bountiful."

"I don't give a rat's ass. Get the hell out of my house."

The human man glared at him. "You keep running your mouth like that and I'll make sure you never talk again."

Sonny gave him a once-over, grinning widely.

"Ooh, lookie - a tough guy," he taunted. "Come over here and dance with me, sexy. I've already killed three people today, but I got no problem with upping the count to four."

The man snarled and took a step forward. The woman held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. The smile never left her face.

"I told my associates here that you are a reasonable man, Sonny," she said. "Please don't prove me wrong."

Sonny spat on the floor. "Give me one reason why I should listen to you."

Her intelligent green eyes twinkled. "I know how unfair your life has been recently. You're living like this because your reputation on the street has been torn to shreds by a coward who didn't deserve to work with a man of your caliber. I can help you get it back."

Sonny just stared at her. She waited patiently - when he didn't have anything to say, she continued.

"Five hundred thousand dollars. That's how much money this job is worth."

Something inside Sonny's mind fell into place with a soft *click* just then. For the first time, he noticed how attractive the woman sitting down before him was. Her regal facial features reminded him of the paintings of the royal queens he had seen in museums in the past. He wondered briefly how it would feel to run his hand down her rich brown hair. Something inside him stirred. He licked his lips.

"Five hundred grand?" Sonny asked.

"Half up front, half when the job is done," the woman replied.

Sonny's lips curled upwards into a crooked smile as he pulled himself a chair and sat down.

Honey, I would gladly take half of that if you throw yourself in as part of the deal.

"Tell me more."

Jones awoke from a restless sleep. He had kicked off a blanket and was chilled by the cool, night air at this altitude. The coolness made him feel nature’s call. Swinging his legs out of bed and feeling the chill of the bare floor, George made an effort to hurry. He grabbed his wide brimmed, Indiana Jones inspired hat from the back of the chair beside the bed and pressed it down on his head, causing his ear tips to splay out to the sides. Then he slipped the honkin’ bug revolver from the holster draped over the back of the chair, remembering the time he got ambushed while takin’ a leak.

Peak ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed his way to the bathroom and to the relief of the rug in the tiny space between sink, commode, and tub. Finishing, he pushed the lever to flush and nothing happened. Drek, the water’s off again. George reached into the tub and lifted out the half full bucket and washed away the waste. He turned and poured some water over his hands, wiggled a bar of soap into a little lather, then rinsed, in the process pouring cold water down his groin and inhaling sharply.

George leaned into the mirror, checking for zits on his fine elven features. As he gazed into the mirror, movement on the side of the tub caught his eye. A cockroach scurried a few steps and stopped. George thought of his bare feet, then the butt of his pistol, then adjusted his hat and launched the spell. The roach fell to the floor. Damn you, bug! He picked it up in a folded piece of toilet paper, placed it on the stained vanity and crushed it with the butt of the revolver, then dropped it in the toilet. He reached under the sink and grabbed a rag, using it to wipe down the gun.

The sun was just starting to rise above the eastern vista. Just like clockwork he thought, remembering how he hardly ever slept for more than four hours at a time ever since Chicago. Peak tuned himself to his environment and called forth a denizen from another plane. Please let me know if anyone enters, if so confuse them and conceal me. Thanks.

He slid the revolver back into the holster laid back on the bed and pulled the blankets to his chin. He reached up and slid the hat down over his face and tried to get back to sleep.