05-26-2018, 09:25 PM
***
A human woman with hollow eyes drinks alone at the back of a dive bar in what used to be Westside territory. She taps an overlage heel against her barstool in time to the music blaring from the jukebox, her bell-bottoms jeans waving freely. Her oversized hoop earrings jingle beneath her afro, and a small diamond disco ball dangles from a thin gold chain around her neck.
Her name is America Jackson.
She takes a sip of her Jack and Pepsi, ignoring the grunts and bellows from the bar patrons easily. It is their smell that is ruining her night.
The T-5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Waryorz are in the house.
A dozen burly orks are drinking riotously, the smallest at least seven feet tall and hundreds of pounds. They are dressed in black biker gear, complete with chains and bandanas, each one of them wearing dark sunglasses in the dim light of the divebar. At their hips are their sidearms; sawed off shotguns, handguns, Heaters, Cracklers, phasers. On their backs are their melee weapons; swords, axes, chainsaws, chains.
The warriors are celebrating a victory; the squad has just claimed the bounty set by the Orc Mafia on Bloodstain, Second Lieutenant of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors. The drow’s severed head had been delivered that evening, and so tonight they party.
Some of them America knows by reputation. She spots Tiny Arahg, Slayer of Sprinkles the Ewok, looming large in the back. She sees Warslut, the female orc with a machine gun instead of a left hand. Some of the toughest gangsters in the Orc Mafia shove and jostle and growl at each other, but there is one among their number who is given a wide berth.
A black furred orc sits in the back, drow blood still splattered across his face, his necklace of gold-covered elf ears glittering. Today, Jarl Elfbane has added a new ear to his collection.
Eventually the talk turns to politics.
America sips her drink.
“I wan’ anudder bounty,” Warslut declares, smashing her tankard on the bar. Her voice is deep and rumbling witha thick orkish accent. “I wan’ Jacket’s fuckin’ cock ‘ead.”
The other orcs grunt, some in agreement, some in humor.
“I jus’ wan’ anudder drink,” offers Gary the Slaughterhouse, a brown furred veteran with a twin pair of chainsaw katana’s on his back. His voice is even lower than Warsluts’, his accent even thicker. “I dun wan’ nuddin da do wid no Jacket. You ‘eard whad ‘e did up on third stree’?”
A chorus of offended grunts.
“I could eat da Fangz for bregfast,” Tiny Arahg rumbles. “And shit dem oud for lunch.”
The conversation devolves. Only America Jackson and Jarl Elfbane are still, seated across from each other, the gang of orks between them. America decides Jarl is staring at her from behind his mirrored aviator glasses. She finishes her drink and gets up.
Her disco heels click against the tiles of the bar, her gold bracelets and hoop earrings jingling, her booty swaying like her afro.
America saunters up to the bar, reaches over the counter, and pours herself a drink. The bartender, an old white man with a handlebar mustache, grabs his coat and leaves. The orks grow very quiet.
America pours herself a double.
“Seems like that Jacket could show up just about anywhere, any time,” America says calmly, a little smirk on her face. The orks start to chuff. Jarl does not move. “Do you think he might show up here, tonight? Would you be scared?”
Warslut cannot contain her rage and pushes through her gang to slap some respect into the uppity human bitch.
In the blink of an eye America has a .500 S&W Magnum in her hand, the comically large barrel pressed into Warslut’s neck. Warslut freezes, her piggy little eyes filled with hate, her nostrils chuffing.
America grins nastily, her pearly white teeth dazzling against her shadow-dark skin.
“Well you should be,” America says softly. She glances over Warslut’s shoulder. “Watch your back.”
A flashbang goes off, briefly blinding the nocturnal humanoids even through their dark sunglasses.
When their retina’s recover, the orcs realize there is a figure behind them.
He wears a red letterman jacket, he holds a bloodstained baseball bat, and he wears a rooster mask.
The T-5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Waryorz light him up, their pistols and machine guns and heaters ribbing him to shreds. When the smoke clears, all they see is the mangled burnt remains of a scarecrow stuffed with cotton.
“You dummies,” America says from behind them. She is wearing a black panther mask that covers her entire head.
Her Magnum goes off like a cannon, a massive bullet catching Warslut in the back of the head. She lurches forward and hits the ground with a thud. She is down, but not out.
A man in a dog mask jumps up from behind the bar and slips a long garrote over Tiny Arahg’s neck, pulling the snarling ork gangster backwards over the counter. Two men in gleefully grinning pig masks emerge from behind the bar as well, and produce long skinny knives which they proceed to stick in and out Arahg’s belly over and over again.
A man who is clearly the fat old bartender in a penguin mask rises from a trapdoor in the floor with an automatic shotgun and starts firing his scattershot wildly into the ork gang.
The orks have barely turned back to America when the machine gun fire starts.
The orks are sturdy and wear battle armor; the shotgun blasts and even America’s massive magnum can be shrugged off. But outside, a group of men in animal masks have a machine gun mounted on a tripod in the back of an old Toyota.
The Orks hit the ground, some of them ducking, the rest of them dying, the broken glass from the front windows of the bar smashing to the floor.
As quickly as it starts, the machine gun stops. And then the horror begins.
Men in sickenly grinning animal masks come running from three entrances, jumping through the broken windows, leaping up from behind the bar. They carry disgusting weapons, hammers and fire axes and buzzsaws, anything to get through the the thick armor and hide of the Orks into their juicy centers.
The orks fight savagely.
Warslut guns down two attackers and guts a third before a giggling woman in a crow mask throws a bucket of acid in her face. The ork’s final howl is cut short as man in a cheetah mask catches her under the chin with a rock hammer, shattering her tusk. As Warslut the falls to the floor, the man in the cheetah mask mounts her and smashes her head with the hammer again and again.
Gary the Slaughterhouse bellows his foreign Urak-hai war cry as he unleashes his dual chainsaw katanas. The whirlwind of death rips through the front lines of the attackers as he closes in on America Jackson. America calmly empties the clip of her .500 S&M Magnum into his face. The clip is empty, but the massive orc still charges. America does not move, but watches the orc sink slowly to the floor and die.
The ambush is working. The masked humans have the T-5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Waryorz surrounded, and the remaining work is slow butchery.
Then Jarl steps in.
His wordless roar beats on the air like thunder, his greatsword lashing out in a wide arc, slicing through of the masked men behind the bar. The rest scramble over each other, but Jarl’s blade licks out to deliver devastating slashes.
“JACKET!” he roars, flecks of blood rolling off his fur. The ambushers back up, holding their weapons in front of them, a small group of orks huddling together in the middle of their circle.
Jarl growls and gnashes his tusks, and the ambushers take a half step back, all except America Jackson.
“JACKET!” he roars again, and again his attackers flinch backwards, and again America does not. “You coward! Will you let your people die for you, rather than face Jarl Elfsbane yourself?”
The men in animal masks at the front entrance break lines, diving through the windows and out the front door. The Orks straighten a little.
Behind her black panther mask, America Jackson chuckles. She pulls out a burning molotov cocktail, dripping fire onto the floor. The men in animal masks behind hold up firebombs as well, the dancing flames casting strange shadows on their hideous viasage’s.
“You’re the only ones dying tonight, suckas,” America says. Jarl roars. A half dozen moltov’s come flying through the open window. America and her gang let loose with theirs.
The orks howl as the gasoline hits their thick greasy fur. The ambushers vanish, all but America Jackson.
America watches as Jarl Elfbane pulls himself through the fire, step by agonizing step, his matted black fur melting to his skin.
She watches dispassionately as he raises his greatsword over his head, and drops in clattering to the floor.
America Jackson removes her mask, bends down, and lights a hand-rolled cigarette from the smoking corpse of Jarl Elfsbane.
Her disco heels clack against the tile as she leaves the bar behind her to burn.
***
A human woman with hollow eyes drinks alone at the back of a dive bar in what used to be Westside territory. She taps an overlage heel against her barstool in time to the music blaring from the jukebox, her bell-bottoms jeans waving freely. Her oversized hoop earrings jingle beneath her afro, and a small diamond disco ball dangles from a thin gold chain around her neck.
Her name is America Jackson.
She takes a sip of her Jack and Pepsi, ignoring the grunts and bellows from the bar patrons easily. It is their smell that is ruining her night.
The T-5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Waryorz are in the house.
A dozen burly orks are drinking riotously, the smallest at least seven feet tall and hundreds of pounds. They are dressed in black biker gear, complete with chains and bandanas, each one of them wearing dark sunglasses in the dim light of the divebar. At their hips are their sidearms; sawed off shotguns, handguns, Heaters, Cracklers, phasers. On their backs are their melee weapons; swords, axes, chainsaws, chains.
The warriors are celebrating a victory; the squad has just claimed the bounty set by the Orc Mafia on Bloodstain, Second Lieutenant of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors. The drow’s severed head had been delivered that evening, and so tonight they party.
Some of them America knows by reputation. She spots Tiny Arahg, Slayer of Sprinkles the Ewok, looming large in the back. She sees Warslut, the female orc with a machine gun instead of a left hand. Some of the toughest gangsters in the Orc Mafia shove and jostle and growl at each other, but there is one among their number who is given a wide berth.
A black furred orc sits in the back, drow blood still splattered across his face, his necklace of gold-covered elf ears glittering. Today, Jarl Elfbane has added a new ear to his collection.
Eventually the talk turns to politics.
America sips her drink.
“I wan’ anudder bounty,” Warslut declares, smashing her tankard on the bar. Her voice is deep and rumbling witha thick orkish accent. “I wan’ Jacket’s fuckin’ cock ‘ead.”
The other orcs grunt, some in agreement, some in humor.
“I jus’ wan’ anudder drink,” offers Gary the Slaughterhouse, a brown furred veteran with a twin pair of chainsaw katana’s on his back. His voice is even lower than Warsluts’, his accent even thicker. “I dun wan’ nuddin da do wid no Jacket. You ‘eard whad ‘e did up on third stree’?”
A chorus of offended grunts.
“I could eat da Fangz for bregfast,” Tiny Arahg rumbles. “And shit dem oud for lunch.”
The conversation devolves. Only America Jackson and Jarl Elfbane are still, seated across from each other, the gang of orks between them. America decides Jarl is staring at her from behind his mirrored aviator glasses. She finishes her drink and gets up.
Her disco heels click against the tiles of the bar, her gold bracelets and hoop earrings jingling, her booty swaying like her afro.
America saunters up to the bar, reaches over the counter, and pours herself a drink. The bartender, an old white man with a handlebar mustache, grabs his coat and leaves. The orks grow very quiet.
America pours herself a double.
“Seems like that Jacket could show up just about anywhere, any time,” America says calmly, a little smirk on her face. The orks start to chuff. Jarl does not move. “Do you think he might show up here, tonight? Would you be scared?”
Warslut cannot contain her rage and pushes through her gang to slap some respect into the uppity human bitch.
In the blink of an eye America has a .500 S&W Magnum in her hand, the comically large barrel pressed into Warslut’s neck. Warslut freezes, her piggy little eyes filled with hate, her nostrils chuffing.
America grins nastily, her pearly white teeth dazzling against her shadow-dark skin.
“Well you should be,” America says softly. She glances over Warslut’s shoulder. “Watch your back.”
A flashbang goes off, briefly blinding the nocturnal humanoids even through their dark sunglasses.
When their retina’s recover, the orcs realize there is a figure behind them.
He wears a red letterman jacket, he holds a bloodstained baseball bat, and he wears a rooster mask.
The T-5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Waryorz light him up, their pistols and machine guns and heaters ribbing him to shreds. When the smoke clears, all they see is the mangled burnt remains of a scarecrow stuffed with cotton.
“You dummies,” America says from behind them. She is wearing a black panther mask that covers her entire head.
Her Magnum goes off like a cannon, a massive bullet catching Warslut in the back of the head. She lurches forward and hits the ground with a thud. She is down, but not out.
A man in a dog mask jumps up from behind the bar and slips a long garrote over Tiny Arahg’s neck, pulling the snarling ork gangster backwards over the counter. Two men in gleefully grinning pig masks emerge from behind the bar as well, and produce long skinny knives which they proceed to stick in and out Arahg’s belly over and over again.
A man who is clearly the fat old bartender in a penguin mask rises from a trapdoor in the floor with an automatic shotgun and starts firing his scattershot wildly into the ork gang.
The orks have barely turned back to America when the machine gun fire starts.
The orks are sturdy and wear battle armor; the shotgun blasts and even America’s massive magnum can be shrugged off. But outside, a group of men in animal masks have a machine gun mounted on a tripod in the back of an old Toyota.
The Orks hit the ground, some of them ducking, the rest of them dying, the broken glass from the front windows of the bar smashing to the floor.
As quickly as it starts, the machine gun stops. And then the horror begins.
Men in sickenly grinning animal masks come running from three entrances, jumping through the broken windows, leaping up from behind the bar. They carry disgusting weapons, hammers and fire axes and buzzsaws, anything to get through the the thick armor and hide of the Orks into their juicy centers.
The orks fight savagely.
Warslut guns down two attackers and guts a third before a giggling woman in a crow mask throws a bucket of acid in her face. The ork’s final howl is cut short as man in a cheetah mask catches her under the chin with a rock hammer, shattering her tusk. As Warslut the falls to the floor, the man in the cheetah mask mounts her and smashes her head with the hammer again and again.
Gary the Slaughterhouse bellows his foreign Urak-hai war cry as he unleashes his dual chainsaw katanas. The whirlwind of death rips through the front lines of the attackers as he closes in on America Jackson. America calmly empties the clip of her .500 S&M Magnum into his face. The clip is empty, but the massive orc still charges. America does not move, but watches the orc sink slowly to the floor and die.
The ambush is working. The masked humans have the T-5 Eastsyd Gangsta Ork Waryorz surrounded, and the remaining work is slow butchery.
Then Jarl steps in.
His wordless roar beats on the air like thunder, his greatsword lashing out in a wide arc, slicing through of the masked men behind the bar. The rest scramble over each other, but Jarl’s blade licks out to deliver devastating slashes.
“JACKET!” he roars, flecks of blood rolling off his fur. The ambushers back up, holding their weapons in front of them, a small group of orks huddling together in the middle of their circle.
Jarl growls and gnashes his tusks, and the ambushers take a half step back, all except America Jackson.
“JACKET!” he roars again, and again his attackers flinch backwards, and again America does not. “You coward! Will you let your people die for you, rather than face Jarl Elfsbane yourself?”
The men in animal masks at the front entrance break lines, diving through the windows and out the front door. The Orks straighten a little.
Behind her black panther mask, America Jackson chuckles. She pulls out a burning molotov cocktail, dripping fire onto the floor. The men in animal masks behind hold up firebombs as well, the dancing flames casting strange shadows on their hideous viasage’s.
“You’re the only ones dying tonight, suckas,” America says. Jarl roars. A half dozen moltov’s come flying through the open window. America and her gang let loose with theirs.
The orks howl as the gasoline hits their thick greasy fur. The ambushers vanish, all but America Jackson.
America watches as Jarl Elfbane pulls himself through the fire, step by agonizing step, his matted black fur melting to his skin.
She watches dispassionately as he raises his greatsword over his head, and drops in clattering to the floor.
America Jackson removes her mask, bends down, and lights a hand-rolled cigarette from the smoking corpse of Jarl Elfsbane.
Her disco heels clack against the tile as she leaves the bar behind her to burn.
***
![[Image: V4Dvvfy.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/V4Dvvfy.gif)