HEAVY TYPE:
Lleyrew'sSpeed Week
After the fourth pint, Weryell was sick and tired of being forced to sing "Tallo ho... Cascade!" with the Innsbruck locals and decided to remove himself from the bar and join the rest of the gang at their table in the back.
Ashe and Yenlar were playing a round of chobba, although Ashe, lacking the Weapons and Equipment Expansion was losing miserably.
"No fair!" cried Ashe, "That's the fifth red move you've played!"
Yenlar shrugged and drew another card. "It's not my fault the game went out of print. I just have better cards, that's all."
Bootzilla was looking at the various lights of the bar through a half-full glass of Cascade brew and making illegible notes on a small prescription pad.
Joe was smiling with unabashed glee as he moved a pen from side to side in front of his eyes. Yes, eyes. Weryell was still trying to get used to seeing Joe without his trademark eyepatch. Paxton Arms had generously footed the bill to have Joe's bad eye replaced with a cybernetic one, on the understanding that the Wyverns would forgoe payment on their next mission. Weryell had promptly agreed, then decided to give the gang a few weeks off once they had reached Yele. After a brief exchange with Miss Sandy, she had hitched a ride with a caravan bound for Peace River and the rest of the guys decided to spend their 'indefinite vacation time' up in Innsbruck.
Weryell sighed as he thought about the present state of the company. The gears were safely stored in a newly purchased Barnaby transport, which had set them back quite a bit. After Ashe had voiced concerns about carrying armed gears deep into the CNCS, they had decided to disguise them, and now were posing as innocent travellers transporting large tarp-covered metal sculptures.
The bottom line was that they company's money was running out fast, and unless Weryell could swindle his way back into a Paxton contract, things looked bad for the Wyverns.
Maybe if Bootzilla's grant money for research on the effects of alcohol on human vision came through they'd be alright for a while.
Weryell doubted it.
"Tally ho... Cascade!" the bar crowd sang. Weryell briefly entertaned the notion of mounting a midnight raid on the Cascade brewery just to get that jingle out of his head.
The hours wore on.
Drinks were served.
"Tally ho... Cascade!"
More drinks were served.
"Tally ho... Cascade!"
Weryell didn't mind the jingle as much anymore. The alcohol probably helped.
Bootzilla was trying to make notes on how the alcohol was affecting his ability to make notes.
Yenlar had passed out and Ashe was busy pilfering a few of his chobba cards.
"Tally ho... Cascade!"
Joe looked at people out of the corner of his eye and laughed with joy.
Last call seemed to come early that night, and the Wyverns stumbled out of the bar with the locals and slowly made their way towards the Camel parked outside.
"Oooooh, my head is going to hurt tomorrow," intoned Bootzilla, "At least we remembered to get a few rooms at that hotel..."
A stunned silence fell over the group as they blinked and looked at one another.
"DAMN!"
Their attention was quickly diverted, however, as a little man came skipping up the street towards them, twirling a stick in one hand. It was Scruffy, the team's mascot and resident Street Urchin. Weryell briefly wondered why no one had noticed the boy was missing.
"Hey guys!" exclaimed the cheerful Scruffy, "I got us a few rooms back at the hotel!"
The rest of the Wyverns cheered and roared and piled into the Camel. Weryell briefly wondered how the kid had managed to pay for the rooms...
"Whaddya mean you don't have any painkillers?!?"
Yenlar's loud tone carried through the hotel wall and woke Weryell by physically pounding on his temples with fifty kilo sledgehammers.
"I told you... I'm all out."
Bootzilla sounded worn out. Weryell hoped the two weren't going to fight.
"All out?! ALL OUT?!? You... are... such... a... BAD... DOCTOR... ooohh, my head..."
Weryell dropped the second pillow onto his face and fell back asleep. Muster could wait a few hours today.
Weryell was awakened again by a loud pounding on his door. A quick glance at the clock revealed it to be well past midday. What in Mamoud's name did they put in that ale anyway?
"Weryell!" It was Joe. "Weryell, get out here! We've got problems."
Problems. That was never good. Weryell rolled out of bed and dragged on some clothes as he hopped towards the door. He opened it to be met with painfully bright lights and Joe's sweating and rather scared looking face.
Two eyes, thought Weryell, That looks strange....
"C'mon, man. They're out front."
"Huh?" mumbled Weryell, "Who?"
Joe ignored the question and took off down the corridor towards the hotel lobby. Weryell shuffled after him.
Outside in the hotel parking lot were stationed two modified all-black Barnaby gear transports. No insignia. No flag. Just black.
Weryell's heart sank as he realized who the owners of those transports were.
"Joe..." Weryell said with defeat in his voice, "Is that...?"
Joe nodded. "Yes sir. It's Munchie's Munchkins."
"Well, well, well," came an arrogant voice from behind them, "Look what the dawgs dragged in."
Weryell and Joe slowly turned, not even wanting to look upon their nemesis.
Munchie stood in the entryway of the hotel, flanked by two of his Mordred-class GREL troops. Known in rover circles as 'the only Bethanite able to fit into a Gear', Munchie and his Snakeye Black Mamba, "General Lee", were both feared and reviled across the Badlands.
"Munchie..." Weryell greeted him with a mock salute, "I didn't know your orbital artillery could follow you this far north."
Munchie laughed for a moment, then paused to nudge his GREL guards, who began to laugh with him. "My satellite follows me wherever I go! It is programmed to stay directly above my head at all times."
Weryell and Joe rolled their eyes.
"Figures," murmured Joe.
"I take it you noticed my transports?" Munchie strode out into the parking lot. "I've had them modified since we last met. They're now twice as fast and twice as armored as a normal Barnaby, and each one has fifteen concealed anti-tank missiles mounted on it."
"Seen much action with them?" asked Weryell. Joe nudged him and they both fought to stifle their laughter.
A frown passed over Munchie's face briefly before he regained his cocky smirk and arrogant stance. "Not yet." he declared, "I'm not willing to dirty the paint."
"More like no one will hire him," murmured Joe, and the two tried with only some success to hide their laughter again.
Munchie flew into an insulted rage. "Laugh at me, will you?! I'll show you! I'm the most powerful there is! I'm gonna win! Let's have a duel!"
Weryell and Joe's smiles faded.
"..a duel?" stammered Weryell.
"Yeah, you heard me! Tonight!" cried Munchie. "This time we settle it!"
Weryell looked over at Joe. 'Not a good idea' Joe's expression said, 'But what choice do we have?'
Weryell looked back at Munchie. "Alright... a duel. My squad versus yours. Up in the old mines... you know the place."
Munchie nodded once and jabbed a finger in the air at Weryell. "You better be there."
Weryell nodded mutely.
Munchie snapped his fingers and he and the Mordred GRELS stomped back into the hotel.
Weryell wiped the sweat from his forehead. It sure seemed to be a hot day.
"Weryell?" Joe asked timidly, "What are we going to do? There are certain laws of physics that we more or less willingly abide by that people like Munchie all but ignore! We don't have a prayer!"
"I know..." sighed Weryell, "But I'll think of something. Someone will."
[Lleyrew]
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