Post by jackalope on Aug 24, 2011 8:53:19 GMT -5
Ultimate S.H.A.D.E.#7
The Good, the Bad, and the Weird pt. 1
The Good, the Bad, and the Weird pt. 1
“22 black.” The voice rumbles across the table but amongst the surrounding noise it doesn't raise any suspicions.
“No more bets.” The wheel spins and people unconsciously lean over the table. The ball rolls around outside rim, slows slightly in speed... and drops into 21 red. A collective moan of disappointment circles the table. The giant blue man in the huge tailored black suit raises his eyebrows in acceptance. The stitches across his hands and the bolts on either side of his neck may have elicited some suspicion. May have, but didn't. This was Las Vegas after all.
“Bad luck.” the gorgeous blond woman says to the enormous man.
He tilts his hat to her. “I did once hear someone say that the only sure thing about luck is that it will change.”
---
In a van outside Bride rolls her eyes. She turns to Jules, the Brain. “Did you feed him that?”
Jules shakes his head and continues watching the screen. He presses the button on the microphone. “Good work Sinatra, the only thing suspicious in a casino is a man on a winning streak. Now bet on 14 red.” He takes a sip of coke and lifts one of the headphone earpieces up. “You know when you figure out the patterns, gambling is really not that hard.”
“I'm pretty sure roulette's just random,” says Bride as she bites into a burger.
Jules smiles. “Nothing's random, Bride. I thought you knew that.”
Bride rolls her eyes again.
---
Frankenstein puts five thousand down on 14 red. A man in a white Texan cowboy hat slaps him on the back, “Who-yee! You're my kind of fool!.” Smiling like a maniac and adds 4 thousand of his own to black 15. “Let's see if you're one off again!” Frankenstein looks over to the bar. An Indian man in a pinstripe grey suit and a turban catches his eye and nods. The man turns and orders a drink. Leaning slightly he whispers to his gold cufflinks.
“Not long now.”
---
A brown suited man stands looking down at the mass of movement, shadow, and neon colour. Silent through the huge one-way mirror, the crowds of people swarms through his casino like wasps on honey. He scans the rows of slot machines, many being jealously guarded by pensioners. The bar is host to the business men on vacation, the bachelor party, the desperate to get lucky. At the tables he can spot the losers, and the soon to be losers, the wannabes and the has-beens, all of them chasing the dream. None of them willing to admit that it's all an illusion.
A well dressed redhead woman enters the room, holding a palm pilot. He keeps staring through the glass as he asks her, “Ever hear about the man who made millions in Vegas and went home to live out his life rich and happy?” She shakes her head. “No? It's because they all ended up back here, giving us back the money. We're like a bank, all we do is lend the occasional loan out, then they return it- with interest. Beautiful.”
She stands, smiling slightly, but unwilling to interrupt. He finally turns to her. “How's it looking tonight? Any high rollers?”
“A couple, where just trying to make sure they're not fakers.” He nods, and looks back at the casino. She stand for a moment, then adds, “You have a meeting now in your office.”
He shakes his head. “Why do I have to see these people?”
“They asked to be taken to our leader, and Ms. Widow's people called us to say that...”
“Ok, ok,” the brown suited man waves her away, “I'll be up there shortly.”
---
Two skimpily dressed woman walk with synchronised steps, expertly holding trays of champagne glasses and cigars. Their hips rock side to side in exaggerated swings. On either side of the Texan and the blue giant they stand on offer drinks. A well dressed man walk between them.
“Compliments of the house.” The well dressed man smiles, exposing his teeth in an overly friendly way. The Texan swipes a glass and downs it in one. Frankenstein lifts his and nods to the man. The man lowers his voice. “The house wishes to invite you both to a more private gaming venue, if you are interested...?”
The Texan grabs another drink. “I'll go, if my luck bringing friend goes.”
Frankenstein sips the glass. “I will go, after one more spin.”
The slick haired man raises his eyebrows and nods knowingly. “Of course.”
---
In a small room two floors up a man sits with his fingers drumming in front of him. Opposite him two men sit. 'Men' was stretching the definition possibly but it was the closest description he could currently think of. They seemed to be blurry as if his eyes would not fully adjust to seeing them, or they were moving at great speeds, they were a pale grey colour, and though he could not quite see their faces, he was sure they had mouths. He let his lips part in a smile before continuing.
“So, before you can fully expand into this space, you need to locate an individual?”
They speak at the same time but the sound seemed to switch from one side to another. He wondered whether their mouths were making the sound at all or they were just moving them in some gesture to him. “We have the location of the escapalon. We require of your services in procuring a weapon. Ours do not have translated.”
Mr Recluse nods. “A weapon, I'm sure, will be simple I assure you.” He leans back in his large chair, his brown suit squeaking slightly against the leather. “But, what will you provide in exchange for this... help? You do understand the concept of an exchange? A trade.”
The two black suited beings sit silent for a few seconds before starting again. “We understand that you have the desire much of the element gold? This we can provides.”
Mr Recluse shifts slightly on his chair. “How much?”
---
A slightly shabby looking, gaunt looking man pulls the handle of a slot machine. The shining images roll around quickly in the reflection of his large glasses. Two match ace cards and a lemon. He feeds another coin in and pulls the lever. He places his change cup on the stand beside him. An Indian man in a turban passes by. No one notices the cups of coins switch. A car, a lemon, and a gold coin. The shabby man sighs and picks up the cup and looks inside. Under a layer of coins he sees the small canister. He puts another coin in the slot and pulls the lever. He quickly palms the canister into his pocket and picks up another coin. In his ear he hears the Bride. “Get ready. In 15.”
Kirk Langstrom stands and stretches. He surreptitiously looks side to side and walks towards the toilets.
---
The room is dimly lit and classy. The faintest haze of cigar smoke wafts about the room. It's quiet in here, without the constant buzz of the crowds. Two towering security guards stand silently either side of a golden door. The elevator door chimes and opens. The slick haired man steps out, the Texan and Frankenstein follow. Passing the private bar, he nods to the barman.
“All drinks are of course free, as are any snacks you may require.”
Frankenstein and the Texan are lead to a spacious room, containing a poker table, a roulette wheel, and a blackjack table. The Casino Host turns and spreads out his hands. “Your choice gentlemen.”
Frankenstein walks to the poker table and sits down. The Texan sits too and orders two bourbons. The table regards them with a subtle loathing, that only the vastly rich ever manage. Frankenstein scans those sitting. The expensively dressed, dark haired, feminine looking man had a certain coldness in his heart, but no explicit evil. The beautiful blond woman beside, who sipped a glass of wine, did contain a certain malice. Beside who the old dyed blond woman, seemed only full of spite at herself. The 30-something Chinese man had done many wicked things, but hid them under the concept of the greater good. Finally the heavy built African man to his right carried the burden of his father's evil actions inside him, but secretly cultivated good ideals he wished to enact.
The younger blond woman speaks. “Minimum bet is ten thousand. Are you in?”
The Texan man almost spits his drink, before catching himself and swallowing with a large gulp. “I'm gonna need another drink.”
Frankenstein slips a wallet from his pocket. A woman carries a tray of playing chips over. He places a gold card on the tray. “Deal me in 500 thousand, please.”
---
“...and in the medium range, you have your basic Uzi Submachine Gun. This is a Standard Uzi with a 10-inch barrel and it has a rate of automatic fire of 600 rounds per minute. Is the target going to be wearing armour?” The arms dealer, bearded and bald, places the gun back onto the table and looked expectantly at the two unfocused grey figures. Mr Recluse stands to the side, and looks about the meeting room.
After a minute the figures point to the weapons, laid out on the table. “These will should destroy the body his inhabits, not the energy beings his is.” The gun dealer looks to Mr Recluse, who nods.
The dealer lifts a heavy silver case and places it on the table. “This is somewhat more expensive as an option but might do the trick.” He pushes an electronic key from around his wrist into a slot. With a hiss of adjusting air pressure the case opens. Inside three strange looking devices lie embedded in perfectly formed foam moulds. “This is alien tech, very hard to come by, very dangerous. This here we believe is Martian in design, it fires a disintegration....”
The red haired secretary taps Mr Recluse once on the shoulder. “Sir, we believe he's here...”
“Who?” he asks back, while watching the aliens.
She whispers in his ear. He looks at her glaring. “In my Casino? Now?!” The two grey creatures turn to him. “Sorry, personal matter.” He turns back and says to her in a hushed tone, “Find him, and find who he's with. Take them all.”
“No wait, that's the trig.....” vomp The arms dealer disintegrates into a silvery dust and dissipates. The alien holding the gun remains standing, still facing the direction where the dealer once stood. The other turns to Mr Recluse.
“The weapon here is sufficient to required do the task. We will takes another.”
Mr Recluse sighs and nods. “I'll see what I can do.”
---
“Ok Frankie, we're go in five. The door behind you to your right should lead to the main stairway. From there you should be able to access his office. We're estimating two dozen security guards, highly trained, so no need to go easy. Remember Recluse is a high priority target and notoriously difficult to track down, let alone capture, so a lot is riding on this.” Bride's voice echoes internally, like she's the narrator of his thoughts.
He looks at his cards. Three Kings and two Aces. He throws three chips in.
“I raise.”
---
There's a knock on the van door. The back doors open and Jules Brun leans back. He lifts one of the earpieces of the headphones. “Lyta?”
Lyta smiles. “I wanted to check if you wanted any food, or supplies, or anything? Robert said not to bother you but he just keeps looking at me weirdly, and I thought I'd check anyway, just in case.” She rocks back on her heels, sticking her hands in her pockets.
“Uh, no I think we're fine here. You should probably head back, we're kind of in the middle of something. Thanks though.” The doors shut.
Lyta nods at the closed doors. “Oh ok.” She turns, heading back to the diner.
---
A toilet door is kicked open. There are footsteps and then another door is flung open. Another couple of steps are followed by the third toilet door slam open. Two black suited security guards look down at Kirk Langstrom sitting on the toilet. Kirk looks up from his watch, and raises an eyebrow.
“Do you mind?”
The security guard looks down at the canister syringe in his hand. “Ok junkie, you're coming with us.”
“You guys should probably get going...” Langstrom says, taking his glasses off and lays them on the ground.
“Come on buddy.”
“That's not a good idea.” Langstrom injects the syringe into his own arm.
“Dammit junkie!” The main guard grabs Langstrom's arm. Langstrom is pulled up, and his arm is twisted behind his back. The syringe drops to the ground. He's pushed towards the door. The main guard lifts his radio. “We got him.”
“I'm just warning you, you won't like me when I'm angry...” Langstrom collapses to the ground and convulses. Arching his back, he screams.
---
Frankenstein looks around the table, eyes narrowed. He sips the glass of bourbon. He throws a chip in. “I call.” Behind him, outside the elevator, the two security guards look at each other, both reaching up for their earpieces. Both pull out side arms, and one hits the elevator button. Two more rush through from another door and head for the elevator, which opens and they enter. Frankenstein turns to the Casino Host. “Anything going on?”
The slicked man shakes his head. “Nothing to worry about.”
Frankenstein nods. The two at the table to his left, toss their chips in and call. The older blond woman drags her long black cigarette holder. She smiles and flips her cards over. The Chinese man curses and chucks his cards down. The African man flips his card over, with a frown. The Texan, to Frankenstein's right, shakes his head and drops his cards. Frankenstein turns to the Texan.
“Ready?” His finger taps the green material of the table.
“You betcha'.” The Texan tilts his hat.
The younger blond woman scowls. “Just show us the fucking cards.”
“Ok.” Frankenstein drops the cards. As they fall, his huge hands grasp the table. It's lifted high and thrown to at the elevator doors, where it smashes. The women scream. The African falls back off his chair. The Texan throws a punch at the Casino Host, dropping him to the ground. A security guard runs through a door, charging at Frankenstein. The huge blue man ducks aside, grabbing the man's jacket and throwing him across the room. There is a gunshot. Frankenstein grunts through gritted teeth, wheeling around to the barman, who holds a shotgun. The barman pumps the shotgun, the bullet casing bouncing onto the floor. Frankenstein roars, sprinting at the bar. The barman's eye twitches, sweat beading on his forehead. The trigger is pulled.
Frankenstein ducks down and shoulder rams the bar. The crunching sound breaking wood echoes out as the bar table is ripped off the floor and slams into the barman, launching him back against the alcohol covered wall. Shattered glass sprays out. Frankenstein turns, holding his arm, his green blood dripping down it. The rich scramble to the side of the room, keeping low behind tables. Frankenstein looks to the Texan. “Should we go?”
The Texan throws off her hat. She shakes her head, returning it to it’s not shape. Laura De Mille, the Face, pulls off the wig. “Let's go.”