02-20-2018, 12:11 PM
(This post was last modified: 02-21-2018, 01:20 PM by King Ghidorah.)
Quote:Disclaimer: I swear I did not name this character after anybody, especially not anybody whose name is at the bottom of the web-page. His genesis occurred back in 2010, in a far-off corner of the internet. Any resemblance to Gregs living or dead is purely coincidental.
In spite of the pervasive smell of grinding ennui and lead-infused exhaust, the graffiti'd tenements and postmodern skyscrapers of Tier-5 had a hypnotic quality of human desperation that drew a certain kind of clever cockeyed jackass like moth's to a self-destructive flame.
Although he certainly fit the type, Special Liaison Gregory (formerly of Grand Austroavia's Diplomatic Liaison Corp, and about a million-and-a-half less illustrious places since then), didn't like the lowest rung of Imperial civilization very much. It was no place for a little guy, let alone a human soul shoehorned into the peg-legged body of a stuffed-toy penguin, criminal proclivities notwithstanding. Gregory much preferred the neon-night energy of Tier 4, where nobody cared what shape you were as long as you were offering to sell them something they wanted, and nobody below middle-management could spot a bad deal; Whenever he was riding high on the hog of a promising business venture, that was where he spent most of his time.
Right now SL Greg was not riding high on the hog. Right now SL Greg was riding high on the fist of a tattooed skinhead in courderoy coveralls and bright yellow wellington boots. Holding the prinny by the back of his extra-small t-shirt (which had his own beaky face on it; branding was always important) the punk slammed the Special Liaison into a dingy alley wall beside an overflowing green dumpster and held him there, coating one side of Gregory's plump little body with a patina of moist soot. Everything smelled like garbage, even the rain.
"What the fuck did you do with our guns?!" the man screamed. SL Greg turned his head very slightly, so that his beak was no longer pressed squarely against the cinderblock wall. Out of the corner of his beady black eye he could see the rest of the Corduroy Mob clustered around on the oily pavement, a skinhead-stormcloud of ropy muscles, tattoos and dingy coveralls, all eager to hear SL Greg's response.
"I sold 'em dOOd," he shmoozed, doing his best to give the impression he wasn't freaking out. "You hired me to sell 'em! I don't understand! Why are you so mad?"
"We hired you to sell them to the HUTTS! " his tormentor roared, grinding the little demon's fluffy body into the jagged mortar. "We got the money, but they never got the guns! They are UNDERSTANDABLY UPSET!"
Gregory felt warm spittle spatter against the back of his head amidst the generally cold drizzle. Somewhere nearby, a useless police-siren dopplered past and faded into the distance. The Special Liaison flapped his stubby limbs until his tormentor eased up a little.
"Look, dOOd - it's all fine!" he said, slightly muffled and speaking quickly. "The Hutts are gonna get their weapons in a couple days! What I did, see, I sold 'em at a ninety percent markup to a big salvage-crew in the Deeps, and then I used the profit from that to buy some slightly crappier guns off this super-naive aggressively-hegemonizing robot-colony I know down on Tier-7 for like, one-fourth the original price! The shipment's in-transit! I made like, double-plus the gross on the original deal, dOOd! I'll give you twenty percent!"
The alleyway was silent. An empty fast-food wrapper crinkled past on a ground-level breeze.
"You're sending the Hutts," said the man in the Wellington boots, speaking slowly and pausing for emphasis, "inferior Product?! And they think it's from US?!"
The rest of the Corduroy Mob frowned thunderously. Knives began to appear in their hands.
"... fifty percent?" Gregory offered, uncertainty finally creeping into his nasally voice.
The only response was the unmistakable particle-nightmare whine of a Chambers pistol, bargain-basement plasma-weaponry for the discerning crackhead, as it entered its priming cycle.
If only they hadn't taken his fanny-pack, he could do something clever; as it was, all Gregory could do was flail and kick and scream.
"HELLLLLLLLLP! HELLLLLLLLLLLLLP!"