07-19-2018, 05:46 AM
***
America Jackson, acting President of the Westside Blessings, is sitting in a hand-carved chair in the Westside Knife Ear Treehouse. She is drinking an ice cold Pepsi in a glass bottle covered in a sheen of frost, and smoking a reefer cigarette. She leans back in her chair, her afro bobbing as she takes in the the bizarre gang hideout.
“Nice digs,” America admits, impressed.
The Westside Knife Ear Treehouse is built into the top of a towering redwood in Central Park, hidden far from the beaten path in the deep dark woods where the tourists dare not tread. It is where the Westside Knife Ear Warriors live, work, plan, and hide. The home of the elven gangsters is anachronistic, lit by magical fire as well as fluorescent lighting, with hunting bows and sniper rifles hanging next to each other on the walls. Vines holding sweet fruit and bright flowers line the walls, and little glowing toadstools crop up in all the corners. It is built directly into the tree and made completely of unworked wood, as though the branches and vines had simply decided to create a three-story home perfectly suited for the gangsters.
“It is safe,” replies Sunshine, acting President of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors.
Sunshine looks like she’s been having a rough time of it lately. The beautiful elf has bags beneath her eyes and her platinum blonde hair is splitting at the ends. Like America, she is sipping an ice-cold thirst-quenching refreshing Pepsi-Cola in a glistening glass bottle. Like many elves, she smokes an American Spirit cigarette dipped in PCP.
The women sit across from each other at a table made from a teal mushroom with glowing neon pink dots.
“I’m sorry about Bloodstain,” America says finally, referring to the former drow general of the Knife Ears. “She was a bad bitch.”
Sunshine nods sadly. “She was a fine warrior, and a better friend,” the elf agrees. “Her death has sparked an exodus of sorts, as the drow and the other dark elves question their chances of surviving the war. But news of vengeance has reached our ears.”
This time it is America who nods, her afro bobbing. She reaches into the pocket of her bellbottoms and tosses a necklace onto the toadstool table. The necklace is made of elven ears coated in gold.
Sunshine lifts the heavy piece of jewlery and holds it up to the light.
“Then Jarl Elfsbane is dead,” Sunshine declares somberly. “And the Westside Knife Ear Warriors owe you a debt. With this war trophy, we might yet convince the dark elves to stay.”
America waves a hand dismissively, the smoke from her joint fogging the tiny room even more.
“Fuck a debt,” America says, her eyes narrowing.
A long, awkward silence fills the treehouse.
“I had a dream last night,” Sunshine finally says, her eyes somewhere far away. “Luci spoke to me.”
“Fuck Luci, too,” America snaps. “She died and went to dreamland when we needed her the most. The Westside Blessings recognize no leadership other than Jacket, the First Knight of the Westside.”
Sunshine sips her sweet revitalizing Pepsi calmly.
“Yet here you are,” the elf says. “Exactly where Luci said you would be, saying what she said you would say.”
America positively glowers across the table.
“What else does Princess Perkytits have to say about me?” America asks, her voice as icy cold as a Pepsi.
“That you are unstable, and you have been ever since the orcs killed your husband,” Sunshine replies calmly. “That you are in love with Jacket, despite the fact you’ve never met him or even seen his face. That you put on a panther mask and started killing orcs, probably to get his attention more than anything. She said that you now run one of the largest gangs in T5, but that the Blessings are inexperienced in urban combat, and despite your numbers you are hopelessly doomed to extinction without Westside intervention.”
America smashes her bottle on the ground, shattering it. Sunshine does not flinch, but just smokes her drug-laced ciggarrete and studies the woman across from her neutrally.
“I didn’t put that mask on and then expect to die of old age,” America spits. “None of the Blessings did. We all know what we’re risking. We don’t need anybody telling us to sit on the sidelines, not when we’re the ones out there every night bagging these tuskfucking turkeys.”
“No one is asking you to sit on the sidelines,” Sunshine says carefully. The elven warrior sighs and runs her hands through her long blonde hair, the stress lines on her face more apparent than ever. “But we need you alive, America, and the orcs have put a bounty on your head.”
America exhales a large cloud of marijuana smoke that lingers in the air.
“I know that,” America says, her dark eyes downcast. “But every second that I go without killing an orc is like a knife in my gut.”
Sunshine nods her understanding.
“Welcome to the club,” the elf says with a wry grin. “Unfortunately, killing the enemy every chance you get is not how you win a war, at least not this one. I decided long ago to follow the strange and winding path set me before me by Luci, as did Jacket. Her orders to me were clear; maybe you didn’t understand yours.”
America Jackson scowls and opens another icy refreshing Pepsi Cola and starts to drink.
“My orders,” she says mockingly. “Are to tell my soldiers to lie-low, and then meet up with your bleached asshole. What are your orders, sista?”
“MY orders,” the blonde says back, struggling to control her voice. “Are to keep you alive, at least for a while, while we get everyone into place. That means keeping you off the streets.”
America lets out a dismissive kind of sound. “Fuck is this? I came here to drink refreshing Pepsi-Cola and kill orcs, and I’m almost out of refreshing Pepsi-Cola, so I’m going to go kill some orcs. What could you need me for that’s more important than that?”
President Sunshine, acting President of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors, squints at America Jackson, sizing her up.
“The Westside Council is convening.”
***
America Jackson, acting President of the Westside Blessings, is sitting in a hand-carved chair in the Westside Knife Ear Treehouse. She is drinking an ice cold Pepsi in a glass bottle covered in a sheen of frost, and smoking a reefer cigarette. She leans back in her chair, her afro bobbing as she takes in the the bizarre gang hideout.
“Nice digs,” America admits, impressed.
The Westside Knife Ear Treehouse is built into the top of a towering redwood in Central Park, hidden far from the beaten path in the deep dark woods where the tourists dare not tread. It is where the Westside Knife Ear Warriors live, work, plan, and hide. The home of the elven gangsters is anachronistic, lit by magical fire as well as fluorescent lighting, with hunting bows and sniper rifles hanging next to each other on the walls. Vines holding sweet fruit and bright flowers line the walls, and little glowing toadstools crop up in all the corners. It is built directly into the tree and made completely of unworked wood, as though the branches and vines had simply decided to create a three-story home perfectly suited for the gangsters.
“It is safe,” replies Sunshine, acting President of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors.
Sunshine looks like she’s been having a rough time of it lately. The beautiful elf has bags beneath her eyes and her platinum blonde hair is splitting at the ends. Like America, she is sipping an ice-cold thirst-quenching refreshing Pepsi-Cola in a glistening glass bottle. Like many elves, she smokes an American Spirit cigarette dipped in PCP.
The women sit across from each other at a table made from a teal mushroom with glowing neon pink dots.
“I’m sorry about Bloodstain,” America says finally, referring to the former drow general of the Knife Ears. “She was a bad bitch.”
Sunshine nods sadly. “She was a fine warrior, and a better friend,” the elf agrees. “Her death has sparked an exodus of sorts, as the drow and the other dark elves question their chances of surviving the war. But news of vengeance has reached our ears.”
This time it is America who nods, her afro bobbing. She reaches into the pocket of her bellbottoms and tosses a necklace onto the toadstool table. The necklace is made of elven ears coated in gold.
Sunshine lifts the heavy piece of jewlery and holds it up to the light.
“Then Jarl Elfsbane is dead,” Sunshine declares somberly. “And the Westside Knife Ear Warriors owe you a debt. With this war trophy, we might yet convince the dark elves to stay.”
America waves a hand dismissively, the smoke from her joint fogging the tiny room even more.
“Fuck a debt,” America says, her eyes narrowing.
A long, awkward silence fills the treehouse.
“I had a dream last night,” Sunshine finally says, her eyes somewhere far away. “Luci spoke to me.”
“Fuck Luci, too,” America snaps. “She died and went to dreamland when we needed her the most. The Westside Blessings recognize no leadership other than Jacket, the First Knight of the Westside.”
Sunshine sips her sweet revitalizing Pepsi calmly.
“Yet here you are,” the elf says. “Exactly where Luci said you would be, saying what she said you would say.”
America positively glowers across the table.
“What else does Princess Perkytits have to say about me?” America asks, her voice as icy cold as a Pepsi.
“That you are unstable, and you have been ever since the orcs killed your husband,” Sunshine replies calmly. “That you are in love with Jacket, despite the fact you’ve never met him or even seen his face. That you put on a panther mask and started killing orcs, probably to get his attention more than anything. She said that you now run one of the largest gangs in T5, but that the Blessings are inexperienced in urban combat, and despite your numbers you are hopelessly doomed to extinction without Westside intervention.”
America smashes her bottle on the ground, shattering it. Sunshine does not flinch, but just smokes her drug-laced ciggarrete and studies the woman across from her neutrally.
“I didn’t put that mask on and then expect to die of old age,” America spits. “None of the Blessings did. We all know what we’re risking. We don’t need anybody telling us to sit on the sidelines, not when we’re the ones out there every night bagging these tuskfucking turkeys.”
“No one is asking you to sit on the sidelines,” Sunshine says carefully. The elven warrior sighs and runs her hands through her long blonde hair, the stress lines on her face more apparent than ever. “But we need you alive, America, and the orcs have put a bounty on your head.”
America exhales a large cloud of marijuana smoke that lingers in the air.
“I know that,” America says, her dark eyes downcast. “But every second that I go without killing an orc is like a knife in my gut.”
Sunshine nods her understanding.
“Welcome to the club,” the elf says with a wry grin. “Unfortunately, killing the enemy every chance you get is not how you win a war, at least not this one. I decided long ago to follow the strange and winding path set me before me by Luci, as did Jacket. Her orders to me were clear; maybe you didn’t understand yours.”
America Jackson scowls and opens another icy refreshing Pepsi Cola and starts to drink.
“My orders,” she says mockingly. “Are to tell my soldiers to lie-low, and then meet up with your bleached asshole. What are your orders, sista?”
“MY orders,” the blonde says back, struggling to control her voice. “Are to keep you alive, at least for a while, while we get everyone into place. That means keeping you off the streets.”
America lets out a dismissive kind of sound. “Fuck is this? I came here to drink refreshing Pepsi-Cola and kill orcs, and I’m almost out of refreshing Pepsi-Cola, so I’m going to go kill some orcs. What could you need me for that’s more important than that?”
President Sunshine, acting President of the Westside Knife Ear Warriors, squints at America Jackson, sizing her up.
“The Westside Council is convening.”
***