The Merry Marauder posted:

I don't think Aceves or Bard could count as plus anything to anyone who was awake in 2012, but I'd accept a second-rounder in lieu of the first. Second round Super-Draft picks have been used on such legends of the game as Scott Fletcher, Matt Mantei, Vicente Padilla, and 43 year old Jim Kaat.

mks5000 posted:

You just traded a super draft pick for Jimmy Rollins.

Jimmy loving Rollins.

Smasher Dynamo posted:

I've said this before, but it bears repeating now that people are starting to post their final rosters: Include the years for your players! Especially with all of the trades and picks, it can be hard for me to track down where all of your players come from, so do me that favor.

I mean, look at Monicro. He's probably an okay guy, but he didn't include player years on his roster post, and now something terrible is going to happen to his team. And he's probably just sitting back in his chair, relaxing, totally unaware of the nightmare that's about to unfold. And I can't do anything but watch and wait as I plot my revenge against him.

Don't be like poor, doomed Monicro. Include player years on your final rosters.

BearDrivingTruck posted:

I'll post my line-ups within the next two hours. Is that ok?

Pungry posted:

yep, that sure is a roster

ToiletofSadness posted:

If you don't think Cal Ripken is good enough to start over Carlos Guillen, may I please have him?

Smasher Dynamo posted:

FROM: Smasher Dynamo
TO: ForeverBWFC, Viscount Slim, C. Everett Koop, kw0134, Brooklyn Brusier, CVE

Okay, listen, I'm loving tired of writing these obits. You guys basically ran your team right off a cliff this year, so, out of a sense of justice, it's only fair that the six of you write your team's obit. I'm sure that the six of your working together can come up with a decent enough send-off for your team. Just do me one favor: try and actually work together for this one last time, okay?

ForeverBWFC posted:

The skies were bright over the town of Supalea, a small settlement on the ages of the Great Wylde, into which few men dared enter, and fewer men dared enter. ForeverBWFC, a seasoned priest in the service of St. Bellhorn, was surprised the weather was so favorable.

It was only a few days prior that he had received the summons to Supalea, when the mysterious letter had arrived at his temple. BWFC had thought his adventuring career was behind him forever, with the Quest for the Legacy standing as a fine bookend to his distinguished career, but this missive had changed things. One simply did not refuse a request from Smasher Dynamo out of hand.

And so it was that he once more took up his enchanted mace and made his way to Supalea. There was not much to the town, a few double-storied buildings with shops on the first floor and living quarters for the merchants above, a few other small houses, huts really, and a tavern called the "Johnny Hopp", if BWFC had to guess, he would guess that Smasher Dynamo would be awaiting him there. Oddly, the entire town of Supalea had not a single house of worship. That was no surprise, thought BWFC, as men tended to lose faith in all higher powers when they lived in the shadow of the Wylde.

Entering the tavern, he noticed that there weren't many patrons, although, at midday, that wasn't that unusual. The first figure that caught his eye was his old rival, the legendary C. Everett Koop. If every scar was a story, then Koop was a 3,000 page collection of tales. He was getting older, no doubt, the jagged red marks that were testimony to a life spent in battle were no longer the only lines on his face, and his one ice-blue looked tired and sunken. BWFC felt his bone ache just looking at Koop, as his memory of the warrior as a young man reminded BWFC of just how old he was. On Koop's hip rested his famous battleaxe, the Marichaxe, a the bite of which BWFC once had the mispleasure of knowing.

To his right, BWFC spied a man wearing a resplendent cloak or burgundy and gold, partially hiding a burnished suit of plate armor underneath. BWFC had heard of Viscount Slim, the deadliest nobleman in all the land, but he had never seen him in person until this day. There were three others, a stoic man in loose shirt and pants of a monk, a young maiden, so slender and fragile in appearance that it amazed BWFC that she could even stand upright without falling apart, and a young man, a boy really, strumming on a mandolin.

"Gentlemen...and lady," boomed a voice from the corner of the room. It was a voice BWFC had heard many times before. All six of them immediately leapt to attention as Smasher Dynamo walked into the dim light of the barroom. "I suppose you are all rather curious as to why I've summoned you here. No doubt you wonder why it is that I would bring the six of you, so disparate in so many ways, together here, and for what purpose. In fact, I do have my reasons-"
Viscount Slim could take no more, "Spare me the dramatics, Dynamo, I did not leave my country estate to hear more cryptic pronouncements and half-truths. I came out of a misguided sense of respect for past deeds, but if you do not get to the point soon, then I will be departing."

Smasher Dynamo shook his head slowly, "Ah, my Viscount, always so impatient. But before we get to that, I do believe introductions are in over. Of course, I suppose most of you know of ForeverBWFC and C. Everett Koop, and I have no doubt that those of you who know them well are surprised that I would willingly put them in the same room, especially considering their history, but I needed two men with experience to make sure you young'uns didn't veer off course. I'm sure they'll be able to work together in this circumstance." Koop glared at BWFC, making sure the priest knew that he had not forgotten what happened at Hell's Pass. "Right, well, at the very least, I expect at least one of them to survive their inevitable duel to the death. Moving on, I've decided to appoint Viscount Slim the leader of your party, as he does have some experience in leading-"

The woman mage piped up, "Is this the same Viscount Slim that burned down the Elf City of Quel'loren?" Viscount Slim rolled his eyes dramatically before responding.

"Oh, I was present at the city when it burned, but it was my father who ordered it. But I certainly have no intention of apologizing for it. They were our vassals, and they refused our call to arms."

"They were pacifists!" The woman cried in a rage.

"Pacifists? They were traitors! Our lands were under siege, and they did nothing!"

"I think we can both agree that what happened in Quel'loren was unfortunate," interrupted Smasher Dynamo, "but we have larger problems at the moment. Viscount, the young lady you're arguing with is in fact called kw0134, and I have been told by men whose opinions I have come to trust, that she is quite the promising mageling."

BWFC took a long look at kw0134. She could not have been more than twenty years old, and was a delicate woman, even dainty, with long blonde tresses that fell not someone suited to the rigors of an adventure, BWFC thought to himself.

"Aren't you a little old for her?" Smasher Dynamo's rebuke brought BWFC back to attention. "This young man in the...what do you call it?"

"A gi." Said the monk in heavily-accented Common.

"Right, well, this is CVE, and I believe that by answering my question, he has used up his allotment of words for the day. Finally, the kid with the mandolin is Bruzer, he's, well, I suppose there is no way of making this pleasant for you to hear, but he is a bard."

The other five members of the fledgling party groaned in protest. Koop was first to speak out, "A bard? What, praytell, is a bard going to do for us? Is there a section on this quest where we will need to have an impromptu concert? Will we face a monster that can only be slain by a C-Sharp?"

"Hey!" Bruzer shot back, "I can do other stuff, for example" The young card pulled out a deck of playing cards and began shuffling them furiously.

"Oh, for the love of St. Bellhorn, stop." Viscout Slim shouted. "We will agree to take the lad with us as long as you put the cards away and I never have to see them again.”

“But it was a good trick…” Bruzer whined.

“Yes, and I would hate to see it wasted on the likes of myself.” Viscount Slim retorted facetiously.

“If you’re all quite done, then I think it’s time we moved on to why I called you here.” Smasher Dynamo announced forcefully, causing the room to fall silent. “Now, it is said that when the Skyhawks were driven from this world, they left behind a very special item, a chalice that was originally mine, and I would like to see returned to me, and, of course, I will reward you handsomely if you do so. Of course, if the chalice were in an easily accessible place, I would just get it myself. No, it is located deep in the Great Wylde, and it goes without saying that it won’t be easy to retrieve it from there. Still, I’m confident that you six can do it, and that most…well, certainly at least half, of you will survive the journey. So, wait say you?”

“Aye,” BWFC spoke first. He had no particular interest in the riches, but owed Dynamo a great debt, and so could not refuse him.

“If that blackguard is going, I guess I have to too,” Koop, on the other hand, had a great deal of interest in the riches, and, if the right opportunity presented itself, sending BWFC on a journey beyond this mortal life.

“Yes, this quest could be….profitable,” Viscount Slim had his own plans for the Chalice, but the others did not need to know about that just yet. When the time came, he would make his own counter-offer for possession of the Chalice, and he knew that every man has his price.

“Ja.” CVE did not have any deep thoughts on the matter. He simply saw a man asking for his help. It would be wrong for him to deny him this aid.

“Yes, assuming that your reward to me is what I think it is,” kw0134 did not trust any of these men, least of all Smasher Dynamo, but she could hardly afford to pass up what he can offer her.

“And I will accept on behalf of Bruzer,” Smasher said quickly.

“Wait, don’t I get to speak for myself?” Bruzer interjected.

“I’d prefer you didn’t. Now then, I dub the Company of the Chalice-Bearers. Go now, my Bearers, retrieve that chalice! But seriously, go, I’ve had to keep the tavern closed while I was giving you all of this information, and I need to make some gold.”

The Bearers, newly christened, set forth on their journey. Smasher Dynamo had given them a map with the location of the chalice but, as the landscape of the Wylde constantly shifted, That map was, at best, a general approximation of the direction they needed to head. Still, at least it was something.

The boundary between the Wylde and the world of men was neither constant nor sudden. In truth, it was a gradual transition, as the vegetation grew denser, the animals bolder, civilization more distant. It was said that in the dawn of the world, the St. Bellhorn carved out a piece of the world for mankind, but left the rest to Mother Gaea, and that remainder became the Wylde, where man could never grab a foothold.

It took the party about five days to reach the Wylde proper, five days of arduous travel. They had not brought horses with them, as horses would be unable to do them any good in the thick of the Wylde which, for the most part, was composed of dense forest.

The Wylde was not a pleasant place for civilized men. The canopy of the forest was so think that there was little light on the ground, even during the daytime. And the noises…skittering, clattering all through the night, threatening danger at every second.

It was their third night in the primeval forest when the wolves came. Bruzer was on watch, but was distracted tuning his mandolin, and the others paid the price. A pack of six wolves, as though the Wylde’s proportional response to the intrusion of the Bearers. The only thing that saved the party from being killed in their sleep was a sudden clap of thunder above the forest. Even then, that only gave them seconds to prepare themselves.

The pack leader attacked BWFC, evidently seeing him as the leader. Still groggy, BWFC made a half-hearted swipe with his mace, but the silver-trimmed beast easily dodged it. The wolf then leapt at BWFC, aiming to tear out the priest’s throat with one mighty clamp of his jaws, an attack that BWFC barely survived by ducking out of the way.

Across the fire, Koop was having better luck with opponent. A fighter by trade, a wolf was hardly a challenge for him, even if this wolf was the biggest he had ever seen, near on four feet high at its shoulder and a stocky build. The giant wolf pounced on him trying to maneuver its jaws over Koop’s throat. Koop, knowing that he was mere inches from a very messy death, attempted to reach for the Marich-axe, but found it on the ground just beyond of his reach. The beast bore down on him with even more ferocity than ever now, and Koop could feel his strength waning as the wolf slowly, but surely, wore him down. In his eyes, he saw nothing by the wolf’s snapping jaws, and felt the warm spray of the wolf’s spittle on his face. Koop knew that it was only a matter of time now, but was resolved to fight to the end.

And then, in a flash, the wolf collapsed onto his body, drained of life. Shoving the beast from his lap, Koop crawled into a sitting position to catch his breath, and caught sight of BWFC standing nearby, blood dripping from his mace as he offered his hand to Koop. Of the remainder of the wolves, there was no trace, and Koop figured that the death of the biggest member of their pack must have scared them off.

Koop slapped BWFC’s hand away, and got up under his own power. Feeling a sharp pain in his leg, he looked down and noticed a large gash on the side of his knee. Trying to put more weight on it, he almost crumpled to the ground.

“Here, let me take care of that,” BWFC used his priestly magic to mend the wound. Koop looked up at BWFC with fury in his eyes.

“Don’t think this makes us friends, old man.”
BWFC sadly shook his head, “Hell’s Pass was a long time ago, when will you let that go?”

“When one of us is dead.” Koop flexed his knee, making sure it was sound, “I assume the others still live?”

“They do, although CVE did take a bad looking wound to his arm that my magic is not powerful enough to heal completely.”

“He’ll live. Now, more importantly, who was on watch?”
BWFC hesitated, “I don’t know that it’s best to assign blame at this juncture…”

“Best!” Koop screamed ,”What would have been best would not to have been nearly killed in my sleep by wolves! No! I demand to know who is responsible for-“
A loud thump interrupted Koop’s rant, and sound that echoed through the forest.

“My gods,” Now kw0134’s voice displayed more than a little anxiety, “He’s awakened! CthulhuDreams has awakened! And now he will kill us all!”

”Viscount Slim” posted:

“I’ll agree that Lord CthuhuDreams is a threat,” Viscount Slim admitted, “But I hardly think that he is our biggest obstacle to securing the throne of the Super-League. “After all, we, the Society of the Bearers, formed at the funeral of the King Dynamo’s last legitimate heir, swore that we would work together to ensure that the whole of the Super-League fell into our possession after the death of King Dynamo. That Lord CthuhluDreams has desires that run contrary to our own plans is hardly ideal, but it is nothing to be too overly concerned about.”

“Normally, I would agree, Viscount, but they say he is forming a cabal of his own to oppose us, and that is far from welcome news.” The Baroness Kay of the Double Ewe responded breathily.

Viscount Slim grimaced, he had known of Cthulhu’s plot for some time, but had not wanted to worry his fellow conspirators overmuch. In truth, they were all reasonable capable, with the possible exception of Lord Bruzer, but Viscount Slim had not brought them together for their intelligence, he had found them because they were just smart enough to help him achieve his goals, but not so smart as to prevent him from cutting them loose at the opportune moment.

He looked at the faces of his friends-of-convenience. There Marquis Bewfec, an elderly nobleman who, the way things were headed, might predecease the king himself. Earl Couep was not much younger, and had a long-standing feud with Bewfec that Viscount Slim had never been quite bored enough to investigate the rivalry’s history. Lord Bruzer was heir to a large tract of land, and had plenty of retainers, that he was not much of a ruler was of a secondary concern to Slim, as he was malleable enough, and could be easily replaced if the time came. As for Markgraf Seafow, he was the unlikely heir to some of the richest farmland in all of the Super-League. It was a shame that he could barely speak the language. Or maybe he could, and he just didn’t like to talk.

And Baroness Kay…Viscount Slim would like to pretend that he chose her for her cunning, but, in reality, he was more attracted to her voluptuous body than her mind. To be fair, she was quite comely, and, at times, Viscount Slim idly daydreamed of killing her husband and taking her as his own wife. Of course, his pragmatic nature mainly kept such thoughts at bay, as he realized that she was too dangerous to keep close for very long. When he had secured the kingship of Super-League, she would be the first against the wall.

“My lady,” Viscount collected his thoughts and began to speak, “I share you concern, but, I have carefully reviewed the situation, and I assure you that there is nothing to worry about.” At that, Viscount realized that he had made an error in judgment and shared more than he meant.

“You knew of this?” Ceuop blurted, “You knew and did nothing?”

“I only learned of it recently, and I lacked a trustworthy messenger to convey the information to you,” the Viscount was adept at prevarication, if nothing else.
“Regardless, the only two of concern are Lord CthulhuDreams and the Earl of Tekay-Bombier, and, to be frank, both them are probably less threatening that they have thrown in their lot with the likes of Bishop Senerieux and…Pungry, who, after along, no longer has a single noble title to his name.”

Bewfec cleared his throat before speaking, “I am more worried that they chose to band together in response to our own pact. I had hoped these…meetings would remain more clandestine, whether or not Cthulhu and his….what did he call them, the ‘Supreme Stars’ or some such nonsense? Even if they are no threat, the idea that we are being portrayed as some malicious band of conspirators cannot bode well for us.”

“That, Bewfec, I tend to agree with” Viscount rose from the table, a stared at a tapestry hanging on the wall, depicting the famous duel of the St. Bellhorn and the legendarily wicked Marauder. “I think, however, I might have an idea that will do much to shroud our intentions.”

It was two weeks later that Viscount Slim’s plan was finally put into action. King Dynamo had called together the lords of the realm to discuss various matters, and Slim noted, with some satisfaction, that he would have a fine audience for his show.

Lord CthulhuDreams arrived late, and offered no explanation for his delay, and that was all the opening that the Viscount needed. Storming up to his carriage to find Cthulhu in the company of Tekay-Bombier and Prince Geaug, Viscount immediately demanded that Cthulhu publicly apologize for his tardiness. It was a provocative maneuver to say the least, and Cthulhu’s face turned a bright shade of red at the insult, telling Slim that it was no business of his. Viscount, however, would not let the matter pass, and loudly proclaimed that Cthulhu’s lack of promptness was an affront to the dignity of the crown, and that such temerity, unless excused, deserved naught but the harshest rebuke. Cthulhu finally lost his patience, and addressed Viscount directly, “Boy,” he bellowed, even though Viscount was, in fact, the same age as Lord CthuhluDreams, “You had best get on your way before I give you a good thrashing.” That, as far as Viscount was concerned, would be good enough for his purposes.

“What language!” Viscount cried out, acting as though he were genuinely wounded rather than gleeful that his plan had worked to perfection, “You would address me, your superior in title, in such a manner? Sirrah, I have little choice but to demand satisfaction!”

Cthulhu had not bargained for this, “Ah, perhaps I was a bit-“

“Come, now, Cthulhu, he has challenged your manhood, and this is your craven response?” King Dynamo interrupted, his voice, as always, full of venom. The Viscount knew that the King would not let this opportunity slip by. For whatever reason, King Dynamo had long thought that dueling was a fine way to weed out the weaker nobles in his demesne. Cthulhu was trapped, he could not apologize without showing a fatal weakness, and if he dueled with the Viscount, by all accounts, a far superior swordsman, that too would likely prove fatal.

“Well, my lord,” Viscount pressed, “Are you man enough to meet me on the field of honor? I know that such honest combat is generally not to your taste, as it lacks the rich subtle flavors of intrigue, but as for myself, I believe that deeds speak louder that hushed words. So, my lord? Have you the courage of your convictions?”

“Very well.” CthulhuDreams was not a happy man.

But King Dynamo was, “Splendid! There is nothing to brighten up a dreary day like a duel to the death. I hereby schedule the duel for midday. And I expect to see both of you to put on quite the show.” Dynamo and his entourage then left the clearing, and re-entered the castle.

Not too much later, the Bearers reconvened in a secluded grove on the royal estate. The rest of the team had not known of Slim’s plan, and were less than pleased with the result.

“This was a mistake, Viscount,” Ceoup began, speaking for the rest of the group,

“Do you really think that CthulhuDreams is just going to sit back and let you butcher him?”

Viscount Slim smiled, “Oh, I have no doubt that he’ll fight for his life but, at the end of the day, I am the far superior swordsman and that will see me through.”

“Yes, but he knows that in a fair fight, you would certainly kill him, and will certainly do something to even the odds!” Ceoup pressed his point.

“Do what? That’s the beauty of the plan, there’s no time for him and his so-called “Superstars” to plot and scheme! He will simply have to march out there and pray for fortune to favor him…and it won’t.”

“I’ve heard that The Goog is some sort of sorcerer! What if he casts a spell!” It was times like these that Viscount Slim regretted including Lord Bruzer in his conspiracy. The boy simply did not have the proper seasoning to be of any use, going on about magic and sorcerers.

“My boy,” Slim spoke with not a little derision in his voice, “If I am somehow slain by some manner of magick missile, then it will be up to you to avenge me.”

“I’m honored, my lord.” The boy was apparently completely guileless.

“Magics aside, I am more concerned with a poisoned blade.” Kay did make a fair point, but one that Slim quickly dismissed.

“Well, they I will simply have to avoid being hit.”

“This isn’t a situation suited to glibness, Viscount.” Kay was apparently unimpressed. “You won’t be able to talk your way out of nightshade poisoning.”

“We’ll see about that…”

The sun shone overhead, casting a wave of heat over the royal garden. It was sweltering outside, but none wanted to miss this show. Viscount Slim clutched his rapier, its worn-down hilt testifying to his familiarity with the weapon. A smile crossed his face, while Slim did enjoy intrigue and clandestine adventures, there was something exhilarating about being able to deal with your foes more directly. To see them quake and shudder as they saw your blade enter their heart. This would be fun.

And CthulhuDreams was quaking. The man tentatively drew his own sword, which, by the looks of it, was more of a prop than a real weapon. Something suited to solemn ceremonies, perhaps, but not for the task at hand. Viscount Slim looked carefully at the blade, and saw an unmistakable sheen of a thin coat of liquid on the blade.

So, it was poison after all.

Slim could have called off the duel, and gotten CthulhuDreams censured for this breach of honor, but the canny lord might just be able to get out of it. No, CthulhuDreams would die today. Viscount Slim had the bastard where he wanted him, and he was not going to be denied his prize.

“Lords and Ladies,” began King Dynamo, “Today we are fortunate enough to witness that the ancient codes of honor and chivalry are not so far gone in our realm that men will not spill their very lifeblood in order to defend them. As by our ancient custom, these two men shall now engage in their own private war, from which only one will be able to claim victory. May fortune smile on the righteous and purge the wicked. For honor!”

“For honor!” The crowd roared in unison.
Slim did not waste time, aggressively probing with his rapier, trying to find Cthulhu’s weakness. His overmatched opponent staggered back, unable to handle the pressure. As the duel continued, with Slim entirely on offense, the Viscount began to realize that CthulhuDreams was even less competent with a sword than he thought. There was no need for any further delays. It was time for the final trap to be laid.

Slim suddenly took a step back and shifted his feet. This gave Cthulhu a seeming opportunity, and he lunged wildly at the Viscount. But this was all part of the plan. As Cthulhu moved in, Slim was already waited, and struck a swift, sharp blow directly to his enemy’s chest. Cthulhu, mortally wounded, reflexively dropped his sword and staggered backwards. Slim retracted his blade, and watched as the bright red fluid began to leak from the hole he had made. Cthulhu looked at him, trying to say something, but the words would not come, and he fell to the earth as the spark of life left him. Slim calmly took out his handkerchief and carefully wiped his blade down before resheathing it. In truth, he had expected the fight to last quite a bit longer, and was almost disappointed with his easy victory. Looking at the lifeless body of his rival, though, a smirk came over his face. Almost, indeed.

King Dynamo then came forth to congratulate the victor, even as The Goog and Tee-Kay bore the corpse of their former leader away. “Well struck, my lord Viscount. And, now that I have helped you, in a manner of speaking, with your schemes, perhaps you could do me a favor.”

“Of course, my lord.” The fact that Dynamo was willing to speak so openly led Slim to believe that this was not a good time to play coy.

“Excellent. You see, there is a distant part of my realm known as Vae Victis….”

”C. Everett Koop” posted:

Koop looked out onto the town of Vic’s Vale. It wasn’t really much of a town, to be honest. A couple of roads, a few buildings, all surrounded by sagebrush and desolation. No rails ran to Vic’s Vale, not even close. The town was a hard three day ride from Carson City, far away from anything of value. Its very existence was like some sort of cosmic joke.

Still, the mayor had offered him a lot of money for him and his gang to help him out of some troubles, and he needed the money. He’d made enemies, enemies who could afford Pinkertons, and he couldn’t afford to pass up paying work, even if it was it in a noting place like Vic’s Vale.

Sighing quietly, he took a look at the men he had brought with him to deal with this situation. The mayor had asked him to round up a posse, but Koop figured he could get away with assembling a crew on the cheap. Maybe too cheap.

Old Man BWFC was drinking again, with a big jar of moonshine in his hand. The fact that BWFC was lazily staring out into the expanse gave Koop a bit of comfort, at least the moonshine wasn’t tainted with wood alcohol. Someday, Koop was going to put a bullet into the back of BWFC’s head for what he did back in Indian Territory. But, for now, he needed that old drunkard alive.

Then there was Slim. Koop didn’t know much about Slim. Oh, Slim told a lot of tales about his past, but Koop was pretty sure that most of them were drat lies. The man had some sort of accent that marked as being from England but, then again, maybe that was a lie too. Then again, liars cost less, and Slim was a solid gun, even if Koop was a bit worried that Slim would betray him for a nickel.
Then again, looking at Vic’s Vale, Koop kind of doubted there was a nickel’s worth of anything in the entire town.

As for the German, he was a giant of a man who spoke little English, and apparently was unclear on the fee Koop negotiated with him. The man was six feet tall if he was an inch, with shortly-cropped blond hair and a freshly waxed mustache. Koop had never seen him use the pistol at his side and, hadn’t met anyone who had either. For all he knew, the German had never fired it in his life. Still, a man that big had his uses, if only because he sure looked like he meant business.

The Rochester Kid was a funny case. A year ago, Koop could never had afforded the Kid’s services, but then the Kid caught one in the chest, and, well, after they took off her shirt to get at the bullet, her career was basically ruined overnight. No one wanted to trust this sort of work to a girl, after all. Looking at her now, Koop couldn’t believe he had ever thought she was really just a man all these years. Her face was too delicate to be a guy…well, it had been at one point. The last year had not been pleasant for her, and her face now showed a permanent scowl. He’d heard from Slim a couple of days before that she’d almost shot him where he stood when he tried flirting with her at a bar in Dead Springs, and other people told him that he wouldn’t have been the first person she would have maimed for pointing out her real nature.

Still, whether people were willing to say it out loud or not, it was now common knowledge, and she worked cheap. Koop made a mental note to not use that exact phrasing when talking to her, because that’s the sort of provocative talk that would lead to internal bleeding on this team.

And then there was Bruzer. He wasn’t much in a fight, and it’s not like he could talk his way out of trouble. But he was a warm body, and six men, well, five men and a lady, looked a bit more impressive than just five. Now, if only Koop could smash Bruzer’s guitar to bits, they’d really be set.

“This town don’t look like much,” The Kid said in her flinty voice. Listening to her, Koop was torn between trying to convince himself that her voice could definitely be mistaken as a man’s and the part of him that hated how stupid he was for missing something so obvious for so many year. “Hey, fuckface, are you sure that they’re going to have enough money to pay us?” The Kid’s yelling broke Koop out of his internal debate.

“Well, Kid, I reckon that given how little in demand your services are, that even a little village like that can pay you what you’re worth.” Koop regretted saying that as soon as the words left his mouth, but the Kid had been sour this whole trip over to Vic’s Vale, and while he could understand her frustration, he had his own setbacks bothering him. “Come on, it’s getting dark.”

The six of them tied their horses to a pole by the town’s city hall, which, from the looks of it, was really just an abandoned house. Opening the door, Koop was immediately confronted with a cloud of dust so thick it seemed to make the air ahead of him seem as cloudy as rotten milk. Gradually, his eyes got used to the dim interior, and he saw a man sitting behind the desk.

“Ah, so you’re Koop, I assume?” The man asked, getting up from his seat and shaking Koop’s hand.

“I am.”

“And these are your men…and woman.” Koop didn’t like the way the Mayor said that. If he had figured out the Kid from just looking at her, then was he just a loving moron for not having seen it all of these years. And why was this bothering him so much? He’d have to do some serious thinking on that later. Or maybe he’d just drink enough whiskey to-

“Mr. Mayor, I must ask, this isn’t a Mormon town, is it, because I know we’re not a million miles away from Utah Territory, and I really could use a drink.” BWFC sure knew how to make an impression.

“We are not, there’s a saloon down the street where you can…take care of that,” The mayor said, while staring at Koop, implicitly questioning his choice of hired gun.

“Don’t worry about BWFC, Mayor, he’s a good man, just a bit thirsty,” Koop didn’t particularly like to lie, but, if this all went the way he was hoping, he’d make some money and wipe BWFC off of God’s green earth in one shot. He turned his head slightly and saw Slim smirking. He didn’t really trust Slim himself, but he trusted the man’s profit motive. When the time was right, the two of them would take care of BWFC once and for all.

“I hope so. The reason I’ve hired you is because my town is being held hostage by the sort of guy that you lot are best suited to handle, I reckon. Ever hear of Ol’ Schull?”

“poo poo, he’s the one who’s been harassing your town?” Koop was worried, he hadn’t expected to find much resistance down here in Vic’s Vale, but Ol’ Schull? That was something else, something dangerous. “I’ve heard of him, Rochester, don’t you have a history with him?”

“What the gently caress is that supposed to mean?” The Kid didn’t like the insinuation.

“Not that kind of history, I’m just askin’ if you know the man,” the Kid was still scowling at Koop’s latest comment, “Not everything that someone says to you is some sort of attack on your…condition, Kid, I just mean to find out whether this Ol’ Schull is as good a gunman as they say.

”Was a time when he was one of the best," she explained, "but, by the time I saw him last, he was just a shadow of his former self. Too many years of hard living have taken their toll on him.”

That was good news for Koop. With the bunch he had, he wasn’t really looking for a fight. “Okay, then, I guess we got ourselves a deal Mr. Mayor. So, where can we find Old Mr. Schull?”

The mayor was also happy, he’d been looking for someone to take care of this problem for months, “He’s probably down at the saloon, man practically lives there when he’s not terrorizing the town.”

Koop and Slim went into the saloon alone. BWFC needed to be kept away from the booze if he was going to be any good, the German was probably better suited to be backup. The Kid? Well, she had her uses, but she was showing a bit of a temper lately, and the last thing that Koop needed was for this to turn into a bloodbath. As for Bruzer, well, he needed to be kept away from guns in general, for his own sake.

The inside of the saloon was dimly lit, and filled with tobacco smoke. Not a lot of people, though. Looking around, Koop got a pretty good idea of why, as, back in the corner, two rough-looking men were sitting, their pistols on the table, and a bottle of whiskey on the floor near their feet. The older one, his hair speckled with white and a long, jagged scar running down his neck, eyed Koop before beckoning him and Slim over. Koop accepted the invitation, and pulled up a chair.
“So,” the old man said in a voice so raspy that it sounded like the man’s throat had been scraped with sandpaper, “You’re the man they call Koop.”

“Say I am, what’s it to you?”

“To me? It’s not much to me.” The old man said, “I suppose it’s nice that they sent another old-timer to deal with me. Wouldn’t be right to get my number punched by a young buck.”

Koop’s eyes flashed in recognition. “So, you’re Schul?”

“That I am,” Schul responded, taking a swing from the bottle of whiskey, “And this day has been coming for a long, long time. Beet-“ He said, turning to his companion, “Why don’t you get out of here, take a ride.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” said the younger man, clearly worried for his mentor.

“Boy, I’ve asked you once, next time I won’t be as kindly. Now, why not go for a ride, and contain yer sadness.”

“If that’s what you want, old man.” Beet got up slowly, nervously watching Koop and Slim, before walking out the door.

“Well, I suppose you’re here to get me to live town, ain’t ya?” Schul said with a sneer.

“We are, old man, and since there are far more of us than you, I would suggest that you give up before someone gets hurt.” Slim wasn’t known for his patience.

“Koop, best get yer lad to calm down, this ain’t some hoity-toity court drama, this is the West, where a man don’t talk orders from other men, lest he stop being a man. Reckon that’s what happened to poor Rochester.” Schul looked at the gun on the table. “I want to die a man.”

“Easy, now, Schul, no one’s talking about killing.” Despite his words, Koop’s hand started drifting towards his holster.

“Used to be that I was my own master, I chose where I rode and what I did, because I was the fastest draw around, and that carried with it some respect.” Schul looked at his gun again. “You respect me, Koop?”

“Well, I don’t-“

Schul suddenly went the gun on the table, but his hand, gnarled and twisted, couldn’t grab the handle, knocking the revolver across the table. Koop, though, was acting by reflex, and shot Schul just the same. Slumping down in his seat, Schul smiled through the pain, “Thank you kindly, Mr. Koop.”

“For what, putting you in your grave?”

Schul winced, “Like I said, I was the fastest draw around, but that was some time ago. I got old. My hands…well…you saw ‘em. And, more importantly, I let someone else be my master.”

“What are you talking about?” Slim didn’t seem particularly moved by the man’s mortal wounding.

“Come on…you saw my hands….did you really think I could hold a town hostage….if I couldn’t even hold my gun…” Schul was starting to fade.

Slim was losing patience with this. “Hey, old man, at least have the common courtesy to tell us who you’re working for before you meet your maker.” Koop like Slim, but the man was not exactly known for his warmth.

“toilet…of….sadness….house up the hill….” And with that Old Schul slumped back into his chair, never to rise again.

“I can honestly say I have no idea what the devil that means.” Slim remarked as he began rifling through Schul’s pockets for any money he may have had on him when he died.

It was night by the time that the Bearers reached the house on a hill. Actually, ‘house’ undersold it, it was a drat mansion. Sneaking around, Koop and the others caught sight of a man playing piano in the middle of a ballroom. The man, who had seemed engrossed in his music, suddenly turned to look at the group, and opened a nearby door to let them in.

“Welcome in, I’m sure you have a lot of questions for me. My name is ToiletofSadness, and I believe you have many questions for me. Unfortunately, there’s just one problem….”

”kw0134” posted:

“Objection, your honor, counsel has not laid proper foundation for this line of inquiry.” ToiletofSadness said in his cold, cold voice.

“Sustained.” Judge Dynamo clearly wasn’t doing attorney Kevin White any favors.
Kevin White, whose muscular 6’2’’ frame and neatly trimmed beard spoke to his overwhelming masculinity. He responded to the judge in his deep and powerful baritone, another signified of just how much a man he was, “Very well, your honor. Now, Mr. Sarsaparilla, have you ever had dealings with the firm of Saint, Paul and Bearers?”

“Yeah, I’ve made deals with you guys before.” Warm Sarsaparilla wasn’t his real name, of course, but Kevin White had no particular interest in falling down that rabbit hole any farther than he already had. Three days of research, and all he could find out about Warm Sarsaparilla’s past was that the man, according to government records, did not exist. He had no interest on learning anything more about the man.

“I see, and could you tell the court about that transaction?”

“Yeah, I ripped you guys off for Bagwell.”

“Objection, the term ‘ripped off’ is either vague or a value judgment that Mr. Sarsaparilla is not qualified to make.” ToiletofSadness was going to make this difficult.

“Mr. Sarsaparilla, what were the terms of the deal in question?” Asked Mr. White, hoping to salvage this testimony.

“Well, sir, I traded some of my relievers and you guys gave me a Jeff Bagwell.”

“I see, and, in your opinion as a Super-League owner, what was-“

“Objection.” ToiletofSadness was not giving an inch.

“Sidebar, your honor?” Kevin asked hopefully.

“Approach” responded Judge Dynamo. The two opposing counselors moved to the front of the courtroom.

“Your honor, Warm Sarsaparilla is a league owner and has been for some time. He’s won an Expansion Cup, he’s made the playoffs, he is qualified to make these sorts of analyses on transactions.” Kevin White pleaded, praying for some sort of relief.
ToiletofSadness did not seem particularly interested in letting him have even this small victory, “You honor, Warm Sarsaparilla has one as many playoff games in his capacity as an owner as Brooklyn Bruiser, and I’d hardly call him an expert. And I mean no disrespect to your co-counsel, Mr. White.”

Kevin White seethed, he didn’t think much of Bruzer either, but that didn’t mean that he felt no loyalty to his associate, “Your honor, I would submit that any owner, given the rarified air of the Super-League, would be competent to give his expert opinion on the value of trades.”

“Your honor, by that logic, Brooklyn Bruiser would be able to come in here, and tell us all on the proper way to run a Super-League franchise, and that would certainly not be testimony that should bear on questions of fact.”

“Prosecution counsel makes a good point, Mr. White.”

“Your honor, if you are asking for some sort showing that Mr. Sarsaparilla is qualified to give expert testimony on this matter, then I would like to request a brief continuance to prepare for such an argument.”

“Granted. Please step back.” The counselors returned to their tables. “Counselors, I will have my clerk contact your offices to schedule a hearing on the status of Mr. Sarsaparilla as an expert witness. Until then, court stands in recess.”
Kevin White was not happy. He had merely delayed the inevitable, and knew that when the day of that hearing came, he would almost certainly lose, and without Warm Sarsaparilla’s testimony, this case was a losing battle, one that would likely spell the end of Saint, Paul and Bearer as a firm. He wondered how it had come to this.

It was raining outside, the sort of dismal day that was all too common in St. Paul this time of year. He hailed a cab and told it to head to Hennessey’s. Whether he liked it or not, he had a meeting to get to.

Hennessy’s was a curious place. It claimed to be an Irish Pub but, in reality, it was a rather upscale establishment, meant to evoke the superficial flavor of a pub without any of the actual charm or history. Like most things in the modern world, it was more concerned with appearances than anything else. After all, if you were going to a real Irish Pub, one would hope you could get a pint of Guinness for less than $7.

$7 for a beer…the way this case was going, Kevin White really needed to start saving his money, because winter was definitely coming.

Sitting down in a booth, Kevin waited a few minutes for his co-worker to arrive. Victor Slim was an aristocratic man, with sharp features and bright blue eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses. He entered Hennessy’s and a grimace came over his face, his disgust at the pub unable to be masked. Slim quickly found Kevin and sat down across from him. “So, Mr. White, how did your day in court go?”
Kevin did not like the way he said that.

“Actually, I already have a reasonably good idea of how it went because, on my way to this meeting, I received a call from ToiletofSadness asking when we’d like to hear their latest settlement offer, and he made it clear that, given the latest developments at the trial, that it would be considerably less than their last offer. So, Mr. White, would you care to explain to me what you did to cause such an degeneration of our fortunes?”

Before Kevin could answer, not that he had a great answer in any case, a waitress came by to take their order. Kevin decided that he was in no rush to get back to his conversation with Slim. “Do you you have any microbrew IPAs?”
The waitress couldn’t even begin to fake an interest, “Yeah, we’ve got one called Motorboard IPA….or Motorhead….I know it’s got motor in it.”

“Is it any good?”

“I don’t know, I’ve never had it, IPAs are too bitter.”

“Well, they aren’t too bitter for me. I’ll take a pint.”

“Okay, and for you?” The waitress turned to Slim.

“I’ll take a glass of club soda.”

“Okay, I’ll get those right out to you.” The waitress then retreated, and Kevin hoped that distraction had broken Slim’s focus just a bit.

“Now, then, Mr. White, let’s get back to business. How badly did you botch the case today.” It hadn’t.

“Victor, what happened today wasn’t even really a setback. It shouldn’t be any problem at all getting Warm Sarsaparilla qualified as an expert, I just wasn’t quite prepared for ToiletofSadness to bring that issue up.”

“Ah, so apparently you’re not an idiot, just lazy?”

“There’s no call for that kind of language.”

“Really? Because you know what I see? I see that the prosecution thinks that we’re weak, and that the judge thinks that we have no idea what we’re doing. And where was Foster-Combs? He should have been there to make sure you didn’t single-handedly kill our case.”

“I don’t know where B.W. was. He called me earlier today and told me he was going to be late, but didn’t say why or how late.” The conversation was briefly interrupted by the waitress returning with their drinks. Kevin took his first taste of his beer. It was bitter, with just a hint of fruity overtones. At least, that’s what the person who made it probably advertised it as. It reality, it just tasted like poo poo. Still, if cost $7 dollars, Kevin couldn’t just throw it out.

“So, what you’re telling me is that we have two lawyers assigned to this case, one of which has no idea what they’re doing, and the other one isn’t even there! Do you know what happens if we lose this case?” Slim’s anger was starting to show.
Kevin slumped his shoulders, “If we lose this case, then Dynamo will probably order the Bearers to be dissolved, and might order sanctions on the rest of us for operating them illegally.”

“That’s right, and I’ve seen the numbers for the Generics, Ltd., I know what kind of shape they’re in. If Dynamo drops the hammer, I’ll be fine, Foster-Combs will be fine. Cooper is on his way out anyway. Who cares about Bruzer? But you, who do you think this sanctions would fall hardest on?”

“What are you saying?”

Slim’s eyes lit up with anger, “What am I saying? I’m saying that we are going to ToiletofSadnesses office, we are going listen to his offer, and assuming they don’t ask for the still-beating hearts of our first-born children, we’re going to accept it. It’s over, you’ve lost. I’m sorry that you did so badly to put us in this situation, but there’s nothing more we can do.”

Slim stopped for a minute, and tried to calm himself down, “Listen, Kevin, once the indictment was handed down, the game was over, this trial, this was never going to work. Hell, this team was never going to work, it’s a wonder that we lasted as long as we did, but this was never going to fly. Hey, did you drive here?”

“No, I walked from the courthouse.”

“Well, then, come on, I’ll give you a ride to the meeting. How much did that beer cost?”

“Seven dollars?”

“Okay, that you can deal with on your own.”

Cooper had apparently intervened and had the meeting moved to Bearers’ own offices, either because he felt as though home-field advantage might help them in these negotiations, or because he was just feeling too lazy to leave his office. Cooper knew he was on his way out and, it’s sad to say, he didn’t really seem to care much about anything anymore.

Back in the offices, everyone was on edge. There was a sense that the Bearers were on their way out, and today’s events had only solidified that meeting. For his part, Kevin was on the brink of a breakdown. His conversation with Slim made him realize just how badly things were going ,and how much of it was his own fault..
He headed back to his office and closed the door. He needed to do some serious thinking.

Fishing around in the pocket of his suit pants, he found a small packet of brown powder. He had gotten from a friend on that last night before he had stopped doing all of that. According to the friend, it was supposed to “take you away from it all.”

Kevin wasn’t stupid, he knew that whatever was in that packet was dangerous, both for what it would do to him, and the backslide that it represented. He had barely crawled out of that hole once, and he was sure that if he fell, he wouldn’t be getting up again.

He should have just thrown it away. But, then again, maybe he’d be better off. Granted, the lows were pretty bad, but at least he never destroyed an entire organization when he was destroying himself with poo poo like this. He carefully considered the packet, and what it could do for him.

After all, he knew that it might somehow come down to this, didn’t he? That’s why he kept this last packet, just in case he needed to get away, just in case he needed just a little break from his real life. And really, this didn’t have to be a relapse, just a short break. And didn’t he deserve a short break? Things have been so stressful that no one would blame him for needing some sort of release.
And what was so bad about taking whatever was in the packet, anyway? If he had a beer, or five beers, no one would bat an eye. If he smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, no one would say anything. But those things wouldn’t really help him. This could, couldn’t it?

He left his office, he wasn’t sure how exactly he was supposed to take the powder, but he didn’t exactly have a syringe and rubber tubing handy. Walking quickly, he went to the office water cooler and got a paper cup from the dispenser. He momentarily considered whether this would work better with hot or cold water, and decided that cold water would be best. Hot water might somehow mess with the chemical…or something. Kevin wasn’t sure, hell, he didn’t even know what the brown powder was, let alone what would happen if you put it in hot water.
That’s when Mr. CVE interrupted his train of thought. The German was a minor partner in the firm, and frankly didn’t really contribute much in Kevin’s opinion…then again, giving how things were going, that probably made him smarter than the rest of them. Kevin and the other partners called him “CVE” because they could never remember his drat name. German was supposed to be an easy, drat it.

“Kevin, meeting in ze conference room.” CVE told him that cold, accented tone of his.

“Yeah, I’ll be there in a couple of minutes, I just have to get something from my office.” Kevin walked quickly back to his office and closed the door. He could have backed out then, but, in truth, he’d already done as much thinking about this as he was going to. He ripped open the packet, and dumped the contents in the cup of water, and drank it all in one gulp. It tasted vile, bitter and rancid. And he felt nothing, although, with a drug like this one, that wasn’t surprising.
Slim then stormed into the office without knocking, “White, have you heard from Foster-Combs yet? The meeting is about to start, and it doesn’t look good when one of our owners has just decided to disappear.”

“No, he hasn’t called or anything.”

“Alright, I’ll see if I can stall them a few more minutes. Find Foster-Combs and get him here. This is serious, they’ve brought Marauder.” Slim didn’t even wait for the new piece of information to sink into Kevin’s brain before he left the room. Kevin sat down at his desk. He picked up his phone, and dialed B.W.’s number. The phone started ringing….and ringing…before he finally heard the call pick up.

“Hello?” the groggy voice on the other end called out weakly.
Kevin suddenly felt hot, was it the drug, or was he just not really ready for this conversation. “B.W., it’s Kevin, where are you?”

“Oh, Kevin, right…I was supposed to be in court today, wasn’t I?”

“Yeah, you were.” Kevin felt dizzy for a moment, but tried to push past it. “Where are you?”

“Well, that’s kind of a funny story, my friend.”

“What do you mean?”

“Not that I didn’t have total confidence in the rest of your abilities,” B.W. Foster-Combs was clearly lying through his teeth, “But I thought that it might be a bit wiser to cut my losses and return home.”

“Home?” Kevin jerked out of his chair at the news, and was suddenly overcome with nausea. “Ugh…are you saying that you went back to England?”

“Hold on, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, so can you at least call in to the meeting?”

“Ah, yes, I’m afraid that wouldn’t work out, time zones and all that, but let me know how it goes. See you around, Kevin.” And with that, the call went silent. Kevin sat back down in his chair, and suddenly he felt very warm, and noticed that he had begun to sweat profusely. That can’t have been a good sign. He then heard a tapping rhythm fill the room, growing louder and louder. He could feel his heart beat to the timing of the beat, and that, too, steadily grew louder, almost deafening. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Despite the intense noise, it was almost soothing, and Kevin started inadvertently nodding his head to the beat.
As he was just starting to feel comfortable listening to the sound of his own heart, the door opened again and Slim stood there, and he was glowing! Glowing! Kevin was amazed at the way the man just lit up, like there were Christmas lights under his skin or something. “Kevin,” Slim said in a deep echo,, “Any word from Foster-Combs?”

Kevin struggled to remember how to speak, “N-n-no, couldn’t reach him.”

“drat it. Fine, we can’t put this off any longer, let’s go.”

“Sure thing, Viscount….I mean, Victor.”

“Is there something wrong with you, White?” Slim stared at Kevin, noticing how much his colleague was sweating, and that his eyes seemed to be glassier than usual. Still, if Slim suspected anything, he didn’t show it. “We need to get this done, don’t screw this up.”

Kevin got up from his chair, and spaced out for a moment as he suddenly felt as though he had somehow disconnected from his body. He followed Slim into the conference room, but kept getting distracted by the lights, which seemed to have some sort of magical halo surrounding them. Stumbling into the conference room, he saw that everyone else had already sat down. Looking at the head of the table, Kevin saw him.

He was surrounded by an unearthly black glow, and had a skull for a face, with a goatee made of fire. He suit was pure darkness, and he swore he could hear voices of the dead warning him about this man. Slim introduced this monster as “Marauder, who is the man who will be leading these negotiations for the other side.” And Kevin suddenly understood what this was all really about.

Marauder wasn’t here to negotiate, he was there to take their souls, but he could just take them, he had to get them to give them up willingly, to get them in a bargain, because that was how the game was played. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. White.” Said the monster, his every word a drop of poison.

“You won’t win, Marauder, I won’t let you win.” Kevin replied, as the ceiling of the room opened up to reveal a starry sky, marred by the blood red moon overhead.

“I know what you’ve come here for, Marauder, and I’m on to your tricks!”

“Mr. White,” every word the monster said hurt Kevin on a spiritual level, “I am not here to ‘trick’ you, or ‘defeat’ you. I am here to try and make a deal that both sides can live with.” His forked tongue flitted out of his mouth at that last part, as the monster could not hide his hunger for their souls.

A peal of lightning lit up the sky as Kevin began to speak, “Oh, no, Marauder, I know your game, I know that the only way you can win is to make a deal, that’s how it all works, but if we don’t deal with you, then we’re safe, and there’s nothing you can do to us!”

“For God’s sake, Kevin, what are you talking about?” Asked Cooper, worried that his co-owner might have finally lost his mind.

“Don’t any of your understand! He’s can only win when he makes bargains! He’s not allowed to just take things, he has to trick you into giving them up! That’s his secret! No matter how much he threatens us or tempts us, as long as we refuse to agree to anything with him, he can’t beat us!”

The ground began to quake as the monster began to speak again, “Is this some kind of joke? I came here to talk with you in good faith, but if you aren’t going to take this serious, I suppose we could always have Dynamo settle it for us.” The entire floor was shaking now, and Kevin had grip onto the table just to prevent from getting tossed around like a rag doll. “Your friend appears to be in some sort of distress. Is he sick or something? He looks like he’s burning up…”

Just then, a wave of fire pulsed through Kevin’s body, and he felt fire consume him. He was being burned alive!

Wait! No! That can’t be right, the monster didn’t have that kind of power! He couldn’t directly harm anyone! This must be an illusion, a way to break Kevin’s will, and he wasn’t going to let that happen. He had to fight it! Fight! Don’t let Marauder win! As his vision faded to black, Kevin focused….he couldn’t let Marauder win.

”Brooklyn Bruiser” posted:

“That’s right, gentlemen, we believe that the terrorist mastermind known only as “The Merry Marauder” is behind the hijacking of the President’s Train.” The man in the black suit continued, “As you know, with the advances in train technology that we’ve made over the past few years, it is now safer and more efficient for even the president to travel on high-speed trains, Super-Trains, if you will. Unfortunately, while a plane is relatively secure while in flight, these terrorists were able to board the train using high-speed helicopters, and have taken the president and several key members of his staff hostage. It’s up to you six agents, drawn from the best of the best, to save the President of the United States.”

“Why only the six of us?” Asked Special Agent Slim, a highly decorated counter-terrorism specialist from the FBI.

“With the terrorists guarding the president closely, it will be hard enough to get six people on that train, any bigger team is just not doable. Now, pay attention, what I’m about to tell you could just save your lives.” The man in the black suit point to a large LCD monitor mounted on the mall. A wireframe schematic popped up on the display.

“Just to remind you, this is all classified. If any of you blab any of this to press at any later date, well, we’ll have to take you out to the woodshed. For those of you not familiar with the reference, and I am speaking to you, Messrs. BWFC and CVE, then what I am trying to impress on you right now is that if you squeal to the press, bad things will happen to you. Very bad things. Understood?”

“Ja.” Responded CVE, on loan from German military intelligence.

“Quite clear,” noted BWFC, from MI-6.

“Good. Now, this is an experimental hyper-train, it can go 500 miles per hour and, more importantly, it contains the latest in stealth technology.”

“A stealth train?” Agent Koop, a long-time veteran of the CIA, scoffed at notion.

“That’s right, a stealth train. If you need something transported across the country without anyone noticing, it’s the way to do it, more cargo capacity than a plane, faster than a car,”

“But it’s on rails.”

“You can get anywhere you need to go in this country by the rails. Listen, whether or not you think this stealth train is a boondoggle or not, it is our only hope at saved the president from the clutches of Marauder, and we are running out of time. Marauder is directing the train to Seattle, where he has a ship waiting to take the president God knows where, and the president’s train is already to 70 miles west of Pittsburgh. We have less than a day to stop that train.”

“Couldn’t we-“

“Listen, Agent Slim, I’m sure that you could think of a lot of far-fetched schemes that don’t involve the stealth train but, believe me, our top men have carefully considered the situation, and they all agree that this is the best way to complete this operation with minimal casualties. And if any of you have a problem with that, well, the door’s right over there…”

None of the agents were prepared to leave the president at the mercy of Marauder, and so no one took the man in the black suit up on his offer.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Okay, we’ve got a transport train ready to take you to Council Bluffs, where the stealth train is being readied for its mission. If all goes according to plan, you’ll get on the train there, make a stealth junction with the other train a few miles west of St. Paul, from there, you’ll make a sneak attack on the terrorists, storming to the front of the train, and rescuing the president. Any questions?” The man in the black suit shut off the screen, and turned the lights in the room back on.

Slim raised his hand, and began speaking even before the man in the black suit acknowledged him, “And who is in charge of this operation? After, I imagine that we won’t exactly be able to call on our superiors in the middle of a fire fight.”

“You’re right, Agent Slim, we will need a team leader. Now, I’ve put some thought into it, and I have decided that the man who will be leading this team…will be Agent Bruzer.”

Agent Koop immediately stood up and starting crying out in disbelief, “Bruzer? That kid? He has no field experience, no experience leading a strike team, and is just some punk kid who thinks he knows ten times more than he really does!”

“Listen, Koop, you may not like Bruzer, but you will respect him. He’s got new, fresh ideas, and no one got better marks in the academy than him.”

Slim was next to object, “From what I hear, Bruzer spends most of his time in some sort of novelty rock act, he’s barely even an FBI agent at all.”

“Now, Agent Slim,” The man in the black suit responded, “That’s not fair. It is true that Agent Bruzer does spend a lot of his off time in a rock trio with Bernie Williams and Bruce Springsteen, but I have heard their music, and I can confidently say that it is much more than a novelty music act. In fact, it may be some of the finest music I have ever heard in my life.”

“Now wait a minute,” BWFC started, seemingly confused, “While I am willing to concede that Bruzer and Springsteen are great musicians, but what about Bernie Williams, he’s just a baseball player, not a real guitarist!”

“BWFC, I thought there might be some push back on this, so I’ve decided to play one of their tracks to prove just how wrong you were.” The man in the black suit then brought out a turntable, as he knew that vinyl was still the purest way to reproduce sound. The song that played was an incredible experience for all of the men in the room, one that changed the way they all viewed the world, by the end, all of them were ready to accept that Bruzer was their rightful leader, because any man capable of making music that beautiful had to be a good leader, for if he could marshal notes with such precision, surely he could do the same with human beings.

Bruzer found that out for himself first hand when, on the ride over, kw0134 approached him in the back of the train. “You know, Bruzer, I was pretty impressed with that song of yours,” she said, breathily, “And I

”Smasher Dynamo” posted:

For the sake of all that is good and true, I’ve taken out the next section of this part of the obit. Let’s just move on.

”Brooklyn Bruiser” posted:

“Stealth train junction in three…two…one! We’re hooked up to the President’s Train!” Agent Koop yelled as he wrenched the stealth train into position.

“Preparing for complete link-up…” A jolt ran through the stealth train, as the final connections between the two trains were made.

“Okay, guys,” Bruzer had put on his most commanding voice, “This is it, it’s up to us to save the President of the United States from Marauder and his terrorists. Let’s do this for the free world!” Agent Koop then blew the bolts on the hatch, opening up a passageway into the President’s Train. The team broke through the door, and quickly took out the two guards the terrorists had left in the rearmost car.

“Let’s hurry it up, people, we only have five minutes before the terrorists realize that something’s up, and if they know that we’re closing in on them, they’ll kill the president for sure!” Bruzer then led his team to the next car. Only one guard in this one, and Bruzer calmly took him down with a single shot to the head. “Okay, intelligence says that the President is being held in the locomotive, and when we get there, we’ll need to be careful, because one stray bullet could blow up the entire train, and that would be bad.”

[quote="”Smasher Dynamo"]
Bruzer, I don’t know why you spent five pages discussing how vibrant the borough of Brooklyn is, but I think it really interrupts the flow of the story, so I’ve decided to excise it.
And now, I don’t think that having your character notice that the shape of the bullet hole in a man’s skull resembles the borough of Brooklyn really justifies that many words.
I also took out your impassioned defense of Joe Jackson.

”Brooklyn Bruiser” posted:

“Everyone just stand back, or, I swear, the president is going to get it!” Whoever was on the other side of that door clearly meant business. “I’ll do it, I swear to God, I’ll do it!”

“Okay, let’s just keep this cool.” Bruzer said, trying to talk the man down, “How about we trade hostages, me for the president?”

“I don’t know, the president is a pretty valuable hostage, and you aren’t. No, I think I’m going to hold on to the president for now.”

Bruzer had a better idea. He quickly made his way to the door, and carefully opened it. With the train going 500 mph, the wind outside was fierce and cold, still, Bruzer couldn’t let that dissuade him. And so, after steeling himself, he stepped out into the cold and grabbed onto the side of the train. Bruzer carefully maneuvered himself next to the rungs of a ladder built into the car of the train meant to give workers access to the roof of a train, and slowly pulled himself up to the top. Making it to the roof, he took in the awe-inspiring sight of the plains of Eastern Montana rushing by him at almost ten miles a minute.

That distraction nearly killed him as a sudden gust of wind knocked off the top of the train. Regaining his focus, he crawled over to the roof of the locomotive. This was going to be the tricky part. Bruzer took the C4 out of belt pouch. This was risky, but sometimes you have to take a risk. Bruzer attached the detonator to the C4, and placed it on the center of the locomotive’s roof. With the train moving this fast, the safest place for Bruzer now was in front of the explosion, as the wind would quickly blow the fire and debris from the blast downwind.
Bruzer counted down to himself, three…two…one…and BOOM! The roof erupted in a fiery plume that was quickly swept away by the wind, Bruzer then dropped into the locomotive with his gun drawn, preparing to take advantage of the distraction caused by the explosion to take out the terrorist before the President could be shot.

The inside of the locomotive was hazy but, even in through the smoke, Bruzer could see that he was alone in the locomotive. The new hole in the ceiling quickly vacuumed up out the smoke, clearing Bruzer’s field of vision, and allowing him to discover exactly what was going on.

On the floor, Bruzer saw who the real culprit was, the real mastermind who had hijacked the president’s train, and kidnapped the president himself, taking the leader of the free world to parts unknown. The giant unicorn etched in the floor mocked him, and Bruzer could only say one thing in response to this revelation.
“IceMole.”

”CVE” posted:

“Yes, IceMole appears to be the man responsible. Have you heard of him before, Mr. CVE?”

CVE hadn’t, and didn’t feel compelled to bluff his way through this meeting, “No, I can’t say that I have. Have you, Slim?” CVE turned to the sharply-dressed man to his left.

“Vaguely, he’s a former mercenary with some sort of grudge against the megacorps.” Slim explained, before taking a sip from his Old-Fashioned.

“I suppose that’s one way of putting it,” said Mr. Dynamo, “IceMole was a mercenary, a good one, eventually, he managed to form his own crew, the Unicorns.”

“The Unicorns?” Slim snidely interrupted, “Not exactly the most intimidating of names.”

“Oh, yes, and the St. Paul Bearers are really so much more ominous of a name, because nothing spreads fear like a portly wrestling manager, especially one who spread over a decade managing Kane of all people.” Mr. Dynamo seemed rather unimpressed by Slim’s wit.

“Hey, Kane became a senator…briefly.”

“Yes, I seem to recall that his political career took an unfortunate turn after he chokeslammed Ben Cardin through his own desk.”

“He just felt very passionately about reducing regulations on federally-owned land…”

“Yes, well, to continue my story,” Mr. Dynamo replied sharply, “IceMole’s team was moving up the world of private military contractors when they were led into a trap by Marauder, at the time a young executive in charge of the Finger-Bangers division of Sumitomo Mitsui, who used the incident to help cement his reputation as a ruthless businessman. IceMole, however, survived, and swore revenge on the man…”

“And now Marauder is the head of Sumitomo Mitsui, and that’s why he stole that generator?” CVE asked, trying to get this story to its conclusion.

“That appears to be the case. The Muon Acceleration Reactor is an experimental power source invented by Sumitomo Mitsui, it’s only a prototype now but, if the kinks can be worked out, it could revolutionize the marketplace for energy. Imagine a generator that runs on water, and produces almost no waste”

“What kind of kinks?”

“The reactor creates energy by destabilizing matter, at least, that’s how some scientists explained it to me. The problem is that the longer the reactor runs, the greater a chance for a catastrophic cascading failure.”
Even CVE, hardened though he was, was more than a bit concerned by that, “What kind of cascading failure?”

Mr. Dynamo’s tone indicated that, whatever it was, it definitely wasn’t good. “No one is quite sure, really. It’s not the sort of thing you test. But, from what I understand, it would be bad. Very bad.”

“So…IceMole is threatening to blow it up…or sell it…or what exactly is going on?” Slim seemed genuinely confused by this whole situation, “I’m just not quite clear on what our role in this is.”

“We don’t actually know what IceMole plans to do with the reactor. He hasn’t issued any threats to Sumitomo Mitsui, he hasn’t tried to sell the technology to another corp, as far as we know, he’s just sitting on it ever since he stole it from a lab six weeks ago.”

“Six weeks?” Now it was CVE’s turn to be confused, “Why haven’t they done something about it? Six weeks is a long time.”

Mr. Dynamo was visibly irritated by the question, “There have been attempts to retrieve the reactor, but they were kept in-house, because Marauder was not exactly anxious to let a lot of people know that he just lost a potential doomsday device to unhinged mercenary with a grudge. It wouldn’t exactly reflect well on his leadership. However, as those attempts were all unsuccessful, it has been decided to bring in some outside contractors. That is, you guys. So, are you interested?”

If Slim was interested, he didn’t show it, “Perhaps. But we’re not hurting for work, and this doesn’t sound like a particularly attractive opportunity….”

“Would a million nuyen change your mind?”

“You know…it just might.”

Three days later, the full team prepared to storm IceMole’s compound outside of Vladivostok. The Unicorns were one of the best crews around. So were the Bearers. Something had to give.

“Are you worried, CVE?” kw0134 asked in her husky voice. CVE turned to her, and, as usual, could not help but wonder what she looked like before she had entered this life. Women standing 1.9 meters tall with 100 kilos of muscle didn’t occur too often in nature, and, besides, he had seen a picture of her as a teenager once, and there was no way that a scrawny girl like that had grown into the veritable amazon standing before him now. No, not without a lot of artificial endocrine treatments, and possibly some bone reshaping besides. Given the scope, the treatments must have been painful and expensive. And for what? To leave out some sort of warrior woman fantasy on the fringes of society? Or had she had other dreams, and this was simply were she finally ended up? What bothered CVE about kw0134 wasn’t so much the artificiality of it all, but that, on some fundamental level, he did not understand kw0134 as a person, an uncomfortable feeling to have about a person you are about to go into battle with.

“Well?” kw0134 asked again, flexing her body as she did. CVE, still distracted, trying to make sense of that latest gesture. Was she trying to intimidate him with her size, or entice him? He wasn’t sure how he felt about either of those possibilities. She certainly was bigger than him, and could probably hurt him quite badly if they did get into a fight.

CVE realized that he’d have to eventually respond to her, “I’m not overly concerned. I have faith in all of you.” That, of course, was a lie.
He did have faith in some of team, admittedly. A series of injuries a few years ago had forced ForeverBWFC into the role of the team’s driver, but he did his job well, and still had the keen instincts he’d had as a youth. C. Everett Koop was also a solid hand at his job, but, then again, CVE was unsure of his commitment to the rest of them. Koop had been saying that this mission would be the last with the team, as he was going to be “pursuing other opportunities” as he had put it. Frankly, CVE was not entirely sorry to see him go, as Koop’s best years were likely behind him.

Looking across the warehouse where they were getting ready for the mission, CVE caught sight of the whimsically named Viscount Slim. That was a man he trusted, if only because his greed made him predictable. Still, in this business, when things could go south in a hurry, a man that single-minded was a godsend, when everything else is inconstant, Slim’s nose for the money made him the closest thing CVE had to a compass.

There was also Bruzer, but he was only coming around to get some much-needed seasoning. And lord did the kid need seasoning.

Unsurprisingly, IceMole and his reconstituted Unicorns were holed up in a warehouse of their own. Moving under cover of darkness, the Bearers hoped they wouldn’t get spotted.

“Okay, old man, mind the car, we should be back soon.” CVE and the rest of the team dismounted, as BWFC looked on.

“Don’t you worry, me and the ol’ Danger Van will be just fi-“ A sudden explosion erupted around BWFC, as the team’s van suddenly exploded into a thousand pieces, knocking CVE into the pavement. Crawling around to get a better look, CVE saw that their ride was now nothing more than a flaming husk of twisted metal. He couldn’t see BWFC in the wreckage, which, considering the scope of the damage, was probably a small mercy.

Bruzer stood up to try and get a better view of the situation, and CVE, knowing the likely cause of the explosion, implored Bruzer, “Get down! Get down!” Bruzer turned to look at his teammate, just in time for a sniper’s bullet to slam into the side of Bruzer’s head, felling him instantly.

Looking around him, the rest of his team wasn’t doing much better. Slim was certainly dead, a piece of the van jutting out of his back. CVE noted an odd smell in the air, almost like a barbecue, and turned to his left to see Koop’s body being consumed by the fire. From the looks of it, he hadn’t even been able to make it out of the van’s door before the attack. CVE felt a pain, he hadn’t noticed it before, because of the adrenaline, but, looking down, his left leg was almost completely mangled below the knee. Trying to get a closer look, he heard a moan from a short distance away. Crawling towards the sound of the moan, he saw kw0134’s limp form, blood gushing from a wound on her abdomen.

Moving as fast as he could, which wasn’t very quickly at all, he pulled himself over to the dying woman. “CVE” kw0134 said weakly, “I just wanted you to…” and then she trailed off, her eyes rolling back in her head. CVE morosely reflected on how he had never really understood kw0134, and now never would, and then the blackness overcame him as well.

“Kismet, CVE, kismet has brought us to this point.” CVE heard the words as he slowly stirred back into consciousness. “In my pursuit of revenge against the man who killed my entire team, my own men end up killing your crew.” CVE opens his eyes to see the weathered face of the man called IceMole. “Tell me, CVE, do you believe in fate?”

CVE shook off his grogginess, “What?”

“Fate. Destiny. That hand of providence that shapes our lives.” IceMole’s raspy voice grew a bit sharp.

“I don’t understand.” CVE looked around his surroundings. He was in a chair, and, looking at his leg, he noted that it had been bandaged and put in a regenerative cast. Noting that he was no longer in agony, he surmised that he had also been given some sort of pain killer. Across the table, IceMole sat in an identical chair and, around them, IceMole’s men waited and watched.

IceMole smiled, “A belief that there is some force out there, that cannot be conquered by human will, and that constrains us, that guides us, that is what saves men from hubris.” His face darkened. “Take a man like Marauder, he believes that he has free will, that the universe will bend to his desires if he only finds the proper way to manipulate it. When you believe that the universe is your plaything, then everything, and everyone, in it are just toys to you. So, CVE, do you believe that I am a toy?”

“No, I…what’s happening?”

“You’ve come for the Muon Accelerator Reactor, I assume. It’s not here. But, in an act of restitution, I have returned it to Fukuoka. Quite near the head offices of the Sumitomo Mistui, in fact. Of course, I did make a few alterations of my own….to help the reactor reach its full potential.” IceMole removed a small black device from his pocket. It appeared to be some sort of remote control. “When I press this button,” IceMole gestured to a white button near the center of the remote, “The reactor will begin to overload. Thirteen minutes, give or take a few seconds, after that, the overload will become irreversible. Four and a half minutes after that, this will cause a large explosion that will obliterate roughly one-quarter of the Fukuoka metropolitan area, and nearly 90% of the Sumitomo Mitsui facilities.”

CVE was shocked, “You’ll kill hundreds of thousands!”

IceMole was unmoved, “Sumitomo Mitsui owns Fukuoka. Most the people killed are worker drones who have already sold their souls to their corporate master. I feel no pity for them. You, on the other hand…”

“What about me?”

“I killed all of your teammates. I know how much that can hurt. Your desire for vengeance is the same as mine. And that has made me think. Is it my fate to succeed in this scheme? Was this victory really meant for me? I feel as though I need a bit of validation, proof that destiny remains behind me.” IceMole drew a revolver from his holster and put it on the table. “This is a Colt M1917 Revolver, created by Colt Firearms for use by the United States Army during World War I. By today’s standards, it is not a particularly useful weapon. It only carries six shots, and takes quite a long time to reload…” IceMole unlocked the cylinder and dumped out the bullets, before picking one out and loading it into a chamber. “Still, there is one thing that revolvers do better than any other type of weapon.” IceMole spun the chamber, and locked it back into position.

CVE began to realize what IceMole was getting at.

“Let’s let fate decide which of us is right, CVE, if you win, my men will let you go. If I win, I settle things with Marauder once and for all.”

“You don’t need to do this, you’ve won, what more do you want from me?” CVE pleaded.

IceMole narrowed his eyes, “This isn’t about you, this is about me. I need to know that I’m right. That this is my destiny. And I’m willing to put my life on the line to prove it. I don’t actually need you to do this, I’m giving you a chance. Do this with me. Let fate take control of your life. See which of us deserves to live.”

CVE looked at the men with guns surrounding him, “…okay.”

“Good. You go first.” IceMole slid the gun across the table to CVE. Who put the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Click. CVE, on the brink of tears, slid the gun back over to IceMole.

“Doesn’t feel liberating? To know that you are not the center of the universe, that there is something else out there, directing you?” IceMole pointed the gun at his head and fired. Click. Shaking his head slightly, he pushed the gun back to CVE.

CVE, crying now, just wanted it over with, and took his turn quickly. Click.
“You’re showing an admirable amount of courage, CVE, no hesitation, just going out and doing it. I almost wish we could both make it through this, maybe team up. You could be a good ally…” IceMole put the revolver back to his head and once more pulled the trigger. Click.

IceMole gave the gun back to CVE. “This is it, you know. The decisive shot. It’s either in this chamber, and you die, or it’s in the last chamber, and I die. Once you pull that trigger, both of our fates are sealed.”

CVE picked the gun up for the last time. Looking around the room, he briefly toyed with the idea of trying to fight his way out. But he had only one bullet, and that wasn’t going to cut it. He could probably take IceMole with him, get revenge for his dead teammates but he would certainly be killed by IceMole’s men in return. No, if CVE survived this last shot, he would survive, IceMole would die, and that would have to do. It was a 50/50 shot, and that was as good as he could hope for in the situation. Inhaling sharply, CVE pulled the trigger

”Smasher Dynamo” posted:

Well, this was a terrible idea.

Smasher Dynamo posted: