04-28-2018, 12:41 PM
“The Westside is dead.”
The declaration comes from Vargok the Terror, Paladin of the Orc Mafia. His smooth voice has no hint of an orkish accent, no growling or tusk gnashing, but is still so deep it could never be human. He crosses his fingers delicately on the table in front of him, his immaculately maintained fur shining healthily as he adjust the sleeves on his black tailored suit. He gazes inscrutably at his dining partner behind opaque black sunglasses.
Weasel, President of the Westside Hufflepunks, glares sardonically back, her bright red mohawk more out of place than the hulking orc.
The two are separated by a delicate candelabra, only dimly illuminating their meal of overpriced steak and Charmander. The restaurant is disgustingly opulent, and Weasel is getting bored of Vargok’s Pacino act. The punk rawk witch leans back and plops her combat boots on the table, rattling the silverware.
“Well someone should tell Jacket,” Weasel says as she reclines. She lights a hand-rolled cigarette with the tip of her wand, smirking. Vargok’s face does not betray any hint of annoyance or offense, but when he replies there is perhaps a hint of coolness to his voice.
“Someone WILL tell Jacket, very shortly,” the ork says, uncrossing his fingers and tapping one of his tusks lightly with his finger, an Orkish expression that indicates ‘don’t worry about it’. Weasel’s smirk widens.
“At any rate,” Vargok continues. “Your empire has fallen. We have every street east of Prohibition Ally-”
“And we,” Weasel interjects. “Still have every street that’s WEST of it.”
Vargok scoffs. “This war was over when you lost the Library. How many soldiers, how much OM have you lost already? Do you really want to face extermination? Come now, Weasel,” Vargok says, allowing a sad smile to cross his face. “I thought you were a businessman.”
The young President blows a puff of foul tobacco smoke in Vargok’s face, causing the candle flames to flicker. Vargok inhales the smoke through his huge orcish nostrils and exhales it again without appearing to notice.
“I’m a gangster” Weasel says finally, her jaw tight. “And,” she continues, leaning forward in her seat, her red mohawk wobbling. “If you could exterminate us, you would have by now. But you can’t, because you’re bottlnecked. You can’t get through Harlan’s casino, you sure as hell can’t come from the Northside. You have to come from south, and you’ll never be never be able to sneak through a large enough force to take us all out. How many boys have YOU lost, trying to smuggle them through the South Side? How many more are you prepared to lose?”
“Hundreds,” says Varok calmly. “We will send as many strike teams as it takes, and for every ten that you catch, one will slip through. And methodologically, relentlessly, you will all be wiped out. This is not a war, my gangster friend. This is a holocaust,” the Terror says, with a hint of a rumble in his voice. The ork clears his throat, lifting a napkin daintily to his mouth, and continues.
“We will accept nothing less,” Varok continues, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses even in the dimly lit restaurant. “Than the complete, unconditional surrender of the Westside Hufflepunks. You will resign as President and leave Tier-5 forever. Any Hufflepunks who refuse to disband will be hunted to the ends of Coruscant, their bodies hung from the rooftops as an example. Your graffiti will fade, your money will dwindle, your power will wane, but you will live. It is a better offer than any other gang in the Westside is likely to receive.”
Weasel glares across the table, her cigarette burning slowly.
***
The declaration comes from Vargok the Terror, Paladin of the Orc Mafia. His smooth voice has no hint of an orkish accent, no growling or tusk gnashing, but is still so deep it could never be human. He crosses his fingers delicately on the table in front of him, his immaculately maintained fur shining healthily as he adjust the sleeves on his black tailored suit. He gazes inscrutably at his dining partner behind opaque black sunglasses.
Weasel, President of the Westside Hufflepunks, glares sardonically back, her bright red mohawk more out of place than the hulking orc.
The two are separated by a delicate candelabra, only dimly illuminating their meal of overpriced steak and Charmander. The restaurant is disgustingly opulent, and Weasel is getting bored of Vargok’s Pacino act. The punk rawk witch leans back and plops her combat boots on the table, rattling the silverware.
“Well someone should tell Jacket,” Weasel says as she reclines. She lights a hand-rolled cigarette with the tip of her wand, smirking. Vargok’s face does not betray any hint of annoyance or offense, but when he replies there is perhaps a hint of coolness to his voice.
“Someone WILL tell Jacket, very shortly,” the ork says, uncrossing his fingers and tapping one of his tusks lightly with his finger, an Orkish expression that indicates ‘don’t worry about it’. Weasel’s smirk widens.
“At any rate,” Vargok continues. “Your empire has fallen. We have every street east of Prohibition Ally-”
“And we,” Weasel interjects. “Still have every street that’s WEST of it.”
Vargok scoffs. “This war was over when you lost the Library. How many soldiers, how much OM have you lost already? Do you really want to face extermination? Come now, Weasel,” Vargok says, allowing a sad smile to cross his face. “I thought you were a businessman.”
The young President blows a puff of foul tobacco smoke in Vargok’s face, causing the candle flames to flicker. Vargok inhales the smoke through his huge orcish nostrils and exhales it again without appearing to notice.
“I’m a gangster” Weasel says finally, her jaw tight. “And,” she continues, leaning forward in her seat, her red mohawk wobbling. “If you could exterminate us, you would have by now. But you can’t, because you’re bottlnecked. You can’t get through Harlan’s casino, you sure as hell can’t come from the Northside. You have to come from south, and you’ll never be never be able to sneak through a large enough force to take us all out. How many boys have YOU lost, trying to smuggle them through the South Side? How many more are you prepared to lose?”
“Hundreds,” says Varok calmly. “We will send as many strike teams as it takes, and for every ten that you catch, one will slip through. And methodologically, relentlessly, you will all be wiped out. This is not a war, my gangster friend. This is a holocaust,” the Terror says, with a hint of a rumble in his voice. The ork clears his throat, lifting a napkin daintily to his mouth, and continues.
“We will accept nothing less,” Varok continues, his eyes hidden by his sunglasses even in the dimly lit restaurant. “Than the complete, unconditional surrender of the Westside Hufflepunks. You will resign as President and leave Tier-5 forever. Any Hufflepunks who refuse to disband will be hunted to the ends of Coruscant, their bodies hung from the rooftops as an example. Your graffiti will fade, your money will dwindle, your power will wane, but you will live. It is a better offer than any other gang in the Westside is likely to receive.”
Weasel glares across the table, her cigarette burning slowly.
***