**I'm back ladies and gents! =D Mostly gents, probably, but hey, everyone should play Saints Row! Anyway, big thanks to Kojote for reminding me that I king of left Desmond and his fans all hanging, so I'm performing some Necromancy on this story, and The Clovers are back! "**** yeah, way to go Countdown!!"
***Currently listening to iTunes DJ, so my musical inspiration if fluctuating back and forth. Hopefully this wont mess up the flow of the story.
- May -
Walking through the factory was a strange feeling. Desmond knew Jerry pretty well, but he'd never been to the arms dealer's warehouses or factories before, and felt like he didn't really belong. Jerry had tanks, military jets, combat drones, artillery cannons, napalm based explosives, and enough custom made weapons and bombs to simultaneously invade China and the USA... if you had enough people to use them all, of course. It was actually kind of alarming, and Desmond looked at Jerry out of the corner of his eye, now questioning the sanity of the short, fire haired man.
“Anyway, obviously, I wouldn't normally invite you guys, or anyone else here in person, but friends get to break my rules once in a while.” Jerry said, his croaky voice the only noise to be heard besides the foot steps of the group. “Plus, I have some info to pass on, and some gifts for you guys.” Jerry added, turning to smile as the four of them all stopped at a door.
“Gifts?” Mick asked, raising an eyebrow. Jerry was a friend, but he never gave anybody anything for free.
For his part, Jerry just grinned and nodded, opening the door and gesturing for Desmond, Mick and Shane to go on in. Assault rifles, shotguns, pistols, snipers and some very illegal, military grade weapons lined the walls, and a good sized pile of nondescript wooden crates sat in the corner of the room. “You gave us a ****ing armory's worth of guns and ammo?” Shane asked, a little surprised at this.
“Oh, right I forgot something.” Jerry said. He opened one of the crates with a crowbar, to reveal that it wasn't full of ammo, but Semtex plastic explosives. Mick's jaw dropped, Shane's eyes went wide, and Desmond had to force himself to breathe after a few seconds of forgetting.
“Uh... exactly what the **** are we meant to do with all of this?” Desmond asked, shaking his head and turning to stare at the now certainly crazy arms dealer. They'd used plastic explosives before, definitely... but never this much.
Jerry just never stopped grinning. “Well, that's where the info that I told you guys about comes into play, Desmond.” Mick said, putting the lid back on the opened box. “It looks like someone blew the whistle on the Clovers. A bunch of FBI and CIA types have been coming into to town. I swear, they're multiplying like mice that ate ten tons of Viagra!” Jerry explained. “And that's not good for business. Now, we all know that the Victor Amsel guy is gonna be focused on the Clovers, since you guys are pretty much running the organized crime in New York.” Jerry said,
“So... we have the attention of some ass hole who works for the government? I'm not impressed just yet.” Shane said, smirking a little.
Jerry frowned at Shane for a moment, and then sighed. “No... no of course you aren't. Tell you what, boys. Cart all of this stuff out of here, back to your safe houses and hide outs, and spread them all out to your people. And make life hard for these bastard. You're going to have to fight them anyway, so you may as well be equipped for it.” Jerry said.
Desmond smiled and looked at Jerry, putting a hand on the short man's shoulder. “Jerry, there's something in this for you, isn't there? You wanna tell me what that is?” He asked, a little bit rhetorically.
Jerry chuckled a little bit. “Well, see, if they are busy dealing with you, then nobody is gonna have the time to come looking for me. All these guns and stuff, they aren't specially made or anything, so they wont be traced back to me. A guy like me could do a lot of time, given all the products I've sold. I don't think I'd do well in prison.” He said, smiling a little nervously.
Desmond smiled, and Mick and Shane were both grinning on either side of him now. “Alright Jerry, we'll take care of the feds. You just make sure we don't run dry on ammo. Deal?” Desmond asked.
Jerry took Desmond right hand in his own and shook it happily. “Deal!”
Someone who likes rap or pop music might having described the club as 'jumping,' and it wasn't an inaccurate description. There was jumping, headbanging, and a swell of skin, sweat, blood and raw, unbridled emotion that was the crowd. This wasn't a club to go and sit in the corner, looking pretty or talking to the people who did look pretty, hoping that someone who stick something in someone else at the end of the night. Unless you were looking for a knife fight. You could probably get one of those here. It was called “The Reavers' Den.” Heavy metal music, ear damage, long hair flinging perspiration in every direction and the people shook their brains like dice. It was a good time.
There wasn't an standard 'look' here. Some people worn dress shirts, tee shirts, no shirts, slacks, shorts, cargo pants, jeans, boots, runners, sneakers, bare foot. But everyone was covered in sweat, not all of it their own.
Desmond and Skye 'danced,' if you could call it that. It wasn't easy to dance with someone when people were spending most of their time in the open floor running into each other, for no reason other than that half an hour ago, some half drunk lunatic had called out for a mosh pit. At The Reavers' Den, you could get one of those started any time, day or night. Or a wall of death. Think red-rover... except nobody wins a wall of death, they just end up bruised and most of them flat on their ****. Not Shane though. He just ran through everyone who was stupid enough to go near him out on the floor. He had a maniacal grin on his face while he stood in the center of the mosh pit, easily kocking anyone who got close out of the circle that had formed.
Mick and Stewart sat a table, watching it all unfold. “So, the feds are after us then, huh?” The ex-boxer asked, his eyes wandering the room, taking in the sights and sounds. It really was a sight to behold; people running every which way, too dizzy to fall down because they could stop turning to their right or left long enough to topple over. “Maybe it was the last bank you guys it? Shane gunned down more than his share of SWAT guys. You really should try being more quiet.”
“Quiet? You think Shane would let us do things quiet?” Mick asked, shaking his head and taking a swig of his beer. “Besides, it would be kind of boring to do it if nothing went wrong. And Des wouldn't get pissed if we did things the smart way.” He added, laughing at his own attempt at a joke.
Stewart sighed, sipping some more of his whiskey, and looking out over the crowd. “Well, just don't piss him off too much. Skye will close your e-mail accounts if you do.” Stewart said. Both of them laughed at this. Stewart's little sister really would shut all their technology down if Mick or Shane messed with Desmond's head to much. Somebody had to keep them in line, right?
Mick kept laughing, until something, no, someone caught his eye. He tapped Stewart on the shoulder and pointed over at her, standing at the bar and getting herself some fancy drink or another. “You really like red-heads, don't you Mick?” Stewart asked, chuckling a little.
“**** yeah I do!” Mick said, downing the rest of his beer and standing up, straightening out his shirt. “Reds are sexy, Stewart. Sexy and naughty. Blonde's get all the attention, and brunettes are smarter... except in your sister's case. But red-heads... yikes.” Mick said, laughing a little. He casually moved through the crowd and to the red haired girl. It took about thirty seconds for him to have her laughing hysterically. And then thirty more to get her on the dance floor.
Stewart grinned. Mick was a bit of a loon, but he definitely had a way with words, to say the least. “Or maybe women just like crazy people guys...” Stewart said to himself, shaking his head and downing the rest of his whiskey. Fortunately, he'd bought the bottle, so he filled up another glass for himself.
Something caught his eye though. As Mick led his new lady friend onto the dance floor, some guy was watching him. Clean-cut, fancy, expensive clothes. Then he brought his cell phone up... and he took a picture of Mick. The man made his way through the crowd, and Stewart never stopped watching him. Then he got really worried. The same guy was taking a picture of Desmond and Skye. Two pictures, one who Desmond was facing him, and the other when Skye was facing him. Stewart frowned.
The guy starting looking around. He saw Stewart, and then brought up his phone for another picture, but Stewart stood up. The guy knew he was busted, and made his way out, weaving through the crowd. Stewart made his way to the door as well. The other guy got outside first, and when Stewart got outside he heard the sound of a car speeding off, tires screeching as it swerved around a corner. “**** me...” Stewart said, punching the glass window of the small bus shelter outside the club, shattering it. “Son of a bitch.” Stewart said. Not because of the punch either. He knew that this was bad. Gang bangers didn't take pictures of people while they were partying in a club. But feds did. ****!
Stewart went back inside and took his seat again. He had some bad news for the others when they got sick of “dancing,” and when Shane got tired of flattening other, more normal sized people. This could take a while.