Welcome to the Working Week (Westside Saga)

[Harlan Higgs]

Harlan dusted off his suitcoat and straightened his hat as he walked away from the large, metallic arch into Coruscant proper. It certainly was an incredible place, especially compared to those old black and white sci-fi movies he’d been fond of in the 60’s. Nevertheless, he’d just been inspected, detected, rejected, infected, injected, and selected by the Empire Peace Division’s prime registry unit stationed just inside the gate. It had been a simple matter to subtly alter his facial features and bodily structure to be different from his default appearance but just similar enough to pass a photo ID. He’d given them one of his myriad aliases, “Victor Hendy”, and using that name again made him feel sharper. Even though it had been the name he’d “died” under, that was the best thing about this Omniverse. No one had ever heard of Vic Hendy, or Melvin Schraeder, or Spades Mahoney, or Carson Mild. He had the feeling that it was a game ripe for some involved cons.


A brochure was foisted upon him as he wandered away from the gate, pulling his hat brim low to guard against the squeaky clean shininess of what he read about as Tier 1. Those white soldiers were everywhere. Far too present for the con man’s liking. He sat down on a bench, flipping the brochure open and read about the different tiers. Tiers 2 and 3 were advertised as convenient and luxurious locations for those who had jobs further up. Tier 4 was barely given a paragraph, aside from something called “F-Zero Racing”. Harlan felt the ancient curse of his blood stir at that, the compulsion of his Beast to gamble and risk and win and lose. Such was the blood burden laid on the Ravnos by their Antediluvian. He would definitely have to pay a visit to the track.


Tier 5 and 6 got less than three sentences combined. In a lifetime of scamming and conning, Harlan knew that the less that was said about something, the more opportunities there were. And he had the feeling that someplace this nice could only be built upon massive human resources. Had to be somewhere for the poor people to live and die. With that, he stood up from the bench, just as a group of stormtroopers approached on patrol and gave him a blank stare en masse. It was the universal stare of the lawman, constant throughout the multiverse. “Get moving, punk. I’m the big man around here and I can make your life severely inconvenienced with a word. I'm the big dick around here, and you better believe it.” Harlan just imagined the words in his head, having heard some variation of them in every city he’d been in.


Before he got the customary beating from the local law enforcement, the Kindred followed the brochure map to the nearest public elevator bank. Still, it was quite the walk. Every building gleamed with chrome and white plastic, security cameras mounted on every high corner. Citizens, tourists, working stiffs, and all sorts of snazzily dressed denizens flowed around him, occasionally being herded away from certain footpaths by the ever present stormtroopers. It took another ten minutes to get to the elevator bank, and another few suspicious blank glares from the identical troopers.


Tier 2 may as well have been the same as Tier 1, same glossy looks and omnipresent troopers. The patrols had thinned a bit though, which told the Ravnos he was on the right track. Another fifteen minute walk and elevator trip, and he could almost smell it. Heavily filtered, pulverized, and mixed with the antiseptic, lab formulated scent he’d smelled much more strongly on T1, but it was there. The real smell, the smell of a city. Smog, sweat, blood, trash, oil, energy, desperation, and sin. “Yess...that’s the ticket.” He mumbled to himself, traversing the third of the layers of the city. The further down you got, the less obvious the law enforcement. He’d already seen the odd collection of young people, wearing the loiterer’s cloak with confidence and the expectation that no one would bother them anytime soon. One more. He could taste the corruption on the filtered air, the pollution. It was his favorite scent, like a familiar cologne. It clung to him, to his clothes, to his demeanor. The smell of money and opportunity.


The smell of Tier 4. The Kindred stepped out of the elevator bank, streetlights winking on and off as he beheld a neon monstrosity lighting up an artificial night. There it was. No antiseptic smell here, no polished antibacterial facade to entice the tourists and assuage the wage slaves. His lacquered shoe crushed a soda can underfoot, the crunch echoing down the street as a breeze blew plastic bags down the road on their own commute. This felt much more like home. But yet….it still wasn’t enough. This was like the Las Vegas version of the real thing. Enough thrills to be found, but mostly sanitized, protected from the worst of the dregs of society. No, he was close, close enough to be comfortable...but that was it. Comfortable.


He’d been comfortable in Ocean City, comfortable playing his games with the courts of Baltimore and the endless procession of pompous Princes that thought they would be the ones to maintain the thin line between anarchy and order. Comfort had gotten him killed. Even if he was protected from Final Death here, for Omni’s amusement, comfort was....boring. He needed some wounds, to feel a blade twisting in his gut, to see the fear on a young punk’s face as the cut drew no blood and Harlan broke his wrist with a clenched fist. To smell the acrid scent of gunpowder and a cooling body, to run frantically for an empty dumpster as the sun burned his heels. To live, as much as an undead bastard like himself could. One more level down.

The elevators here were out of order, and by the looks of it, had been for some time. A shuttered, rickety public stairway was offered as an alternate route. The vibrant energy and the smell wafting up from it was exactly what he had been looking for. He felt like celebrating, a new hunting ground and metropolis ripe for the game and the thrill. As he stepped down what felt like endless flights of worn stairs, the Ravnos decided to test out Omni’s gift to all Primes. An illusory cigar was summoned within a few seconds, and while it smoked like real, the heat and the cloud of pungent fumes as real to anyone unfamiliar with the dream-constructs of Chimerstry, it was hollow to Harlan. Which was to be expected.

Really concentrating this time, using the same basic process as illusion casting, he drew it out. Poured the fuel into the idea of a cigar, the slowly dried leaves of rich tobacco, the essence of the deadly sun put to good use. Subtle notes as it was shredded and rolled, hints of oak and cherry and coffee and dirt. A room-clearer if there ever was one. Harlan Higgs liked cigars. They had a way of influencing social dynamics in a way that was respectful yet impish.

Just as he exited the stairwell, the cigar finished materializing in his hands. This one was real. Real enough to have just come right out of his old humidor. As he raised it to his thin, grey lips and bit the end off, he beheld the smoggy, hot, and intensely familiar sight of Tier 5. Allowing himself a small chuckle as he lit the end of his victory smoke with a momentary burst of flame, he walked off down the block with no real direction in mind...but forward. “I wanna be a part of it, New York. New York…” He sang softly to himself, a cloud of smoke marking his trail.

[Harlan Higgs]

“Absolutely. You look like an intelligent young man, moreso than your friend over there.” Harlan waved the bloody brass covering his knuckles toward the prone form of a musclebound Ork, the heavy metal welded to his jaw still vibrating from the left hook that had knocked him cold. The Kindred reached down to his stomach, and pulled out a rusty shiv, wiping it on the trembling human dressed in ripped leather and busted tin cans. “I’m sure your boss will reimburse me for the cost of the tailoring work my shirt will need.” He reached with his other hand and hoisted the kid up by the collar of his jacket, drag-marching him into the shadowy hookah bar on 30th street.

As soon as they were silhouetted against the doorframe, the Ravnos heard the telltale click of automatic weapons being chambered and the clinking of metallic blades being drawn. His hostage whimpered, struggling to get away, and yelped. “Me and Irontooth tried to stop him guys, he’s a Prime! He just came up and cracked the guy’s jaw!” Harlan cuffed him in the back of the head and he fell silent once more. Dull, ember like pupils cast their gaze around the room. Too many to fight head on, which he’d expected. Their boss was seated against the back wall, idly sucking on a hookah piece and watching the scene unfold, radiating the kind of lazy confidence that permeated this type of outfit.

Harlan threw the kid onto the floor and raised his hands, appearing to surrender. “Sorry for the hub-bub, fellas. Had to make an entrance. I doubt you clinks would pay attention to a fancy dressed fella like me without a bit of the old ultraviolence to liven things up, right?” He wrinkled his nose, making a show of sniffing the air. “And talk about livening things up, phew! Argus back there looks like he’s fusing to the couch!” At that, Argus stood up to his full height and kicked the table over in front of him, shattering his smoking piece and clomping towards Harlan in big leather boots. Bits of chain and leather and other detritus jangled on his outfit, the man bald and imposing at 8 feet tall with muscles like steel cord and bright green glowing veins. “How. Do. You. Know. My. Name, punk bitch?” He asked, on what was less a voice and more a growl.

The Ravnos gave him a cheeky smile and snapped his thumb at Argus. “Easy, Rock. I just asked around the neighborhood. Asked who thought they ran this turf. Junkies, hobos, and burnouts, all said the same thing. ‘Argus and the Metalheads.’ “ Harlan took a step back and did a small, pacing circle of the store, the rest of the gang members looking at the stranger uneasily and then back at their boss, as if to reassure themselves that this strange, dapper man would soon be dispatched and things could return to normal. “But it’s very, very apparent that you don’t run shit around here. Disgraceful. Simply disgraceful.”

The vampire heard Argus’s chains clink as he moved his arms in an unseen gesture, followed by two sets of boots trying to be quiet. A gesture of his own gloved hand, and a rough, braided hangman’s noose materialized from the ceiling, looping over the neck of the first thug and yanking him off his feet to dance a merry jig of asphyxia. “You see, I know this city. I lived in this city. I fucking ran part of this city.” The second assailant, unaware of his reduced advantage, took a short breath and raised a heavy wrench to smash Harlan’s skull open. There was a whirl of motion and a BANG , and the blue, scaled alien stumbled backwards clutching a bloody stump of a fist, Harlan’s Colt pointed upwards. “And by ran, I don't mean I sat in a hookah bar and doped myself loopy. I mean ran, as in taking care of your fucking citizenry . You take care of the turf, and it takes care of you when you need it too.”

The impudence was too much for Argus, the threat to his authority making his rage boil over. He let out a mighty roar of dominance, and with a forceful uppercut, punched Harlan’s head clean off his body. Bowler hat still miraculously attached as the vampire's cranium smacked against the wall and rolled to a stop just inside the doorframe. Argus spat in contempt and turned away as the man’s body crumpled to the ground, satisfied….until he heard the stranger’s voice again. “I’m sure the locals will celebrate the change in leadership. If any of you decide you’d rather continue living, I suggest you leave now. Auditions will be sometime after I’ve cleaned up the mess. Ta.”

Argus didn’t see it happen, but the reactions of the few men who hadn’t fled were more than enough to make his break out in a cold sweat. The room went inky dark, and a horrific, meaty, skittering noise filled the air. He felt sharp needles penetrating his flesh, tearing him apart bit by bit as nightmarish creatures flooded out of the stranger’s ragged body, screams and wails of sheer terror silenced beyond the storefront. A stray hand clawed desperately at the window, making a muffled tapping noise before being dragged back into the inky blackness filling the interior of the bar. Death was heavy in the air as Argus and his hapless gang writhed on the floor, screaming as illusions ripped them apart in their minds. That made it quite easy for Harlan to drink his fill of warm Vitae, and execute the rest with bullets to the dome, or just beating them to a bloody pulp. His Beast was roaring triumphantly in his ears, and the temptation to completely go all out was consequence free.

It was a massacre.

[Harlan Higgs]

The hookah bar that had been known as the Desert Oasis, long since out of normal operation since Argus and the Metalheads had taken over to use as a base of operations, had disappeared. Or rather, the front door and broken sign marking it as such had disappeared. Replaced only by a blank brick wall that looked like brand new construction against the old, crumbling brickwork. Passersby paused momentarily, wondering just what had happened. The Metalheads seemed to have disappeared overnight, their drop locations and favorite hang out spots empty of the clanking, rough-and-tumble gangsters and their chemmed up overboss. Where could they have gone?

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Drip.

Sluuurp.

“Chroist, what a fucking vintage. He must have shot up every drug ever invented! Ghh-ghhaaahahah!”

Harlan twitched, curling his fingers into his palm, yellow nails cutting gashes into his dead skin as the drugged Vitae coursed through his undead body, Argus's decapitated body hanging upside down and leaking blood into a dark stone jug. The Ravnos was shirtless, his eyes glowing with power as the temporary high made his mind fire on full blast once more. The dismembered bodies of the remaining Metalhead had been drained of blood, and when that bored the conman, he’d extracted their Omnilium. Much easier than he thought, and it had only occurred to him after an intense thinking session of what to do with the bodies. He’d gone on an extraction spree, breaking down dead gang members, their broken furniture, and accoutrements into base OM.

The feeling was maniacal, and familiar in a way that he hadn't experienced since the worst time in his life. The Week of Nightmares. He had found out the details after the fact, wandering across the Eastern Seaboard and picking up information here and there from sympathetic Kindred. Zapathasura, the Ravnos Antediluvian. The progenitor of the Trickster bloodline, it’s beginning and it’s ending. He- or it, really - had awoken from a centuries long torpor. Ravenous. Starving. And angry.

A being of unbelievable power, it’s mere consciousness sending each and every Ravnos around the globe into fits of maniacal power and psychosis, with the fantastical reality warping powers to back it up. Zapathasura drank half of Bangladesh and devoured any of its children it encountered to feed it’s ancient hunger. The monster was only brought down by the combined efforts of mortal enemies, and “a golden sunbeam from the Heavens”. With it’s dying scream, it unleashed a psychic wave through the blood. Every Ravnos entered the blood frenzy, diablerizing each other and being destroyed by mortals or frightened Camarilla members. Harlan himself had diablerized his sire and woken up in a ruined building, twisted into fantastical geometries and filled with screaming, shambling humans morphed into nightmarish forms. He’d torched the buildings and wandered for months in a fugue state. One of perhaps the last hundred Ravnos left in the world.

But this was different. He was the only Ravnos he knew of here, and his kind had evolved to become solitary. Loneliness was a non-factor at this point. He had kine to manipulate and entertain himself with. And if Omni desired his Primes to be more powerful than they had been before in their home worlds, well then….the consequences were currently surging through Harlan’s body.

The interior of Desert Oasis had been metaphysically gutted, nothing but bare walls and floor left. Harlan had redressed himself after cleaning the blood and gashes off of his skin after his destructive binge on Argus’s drugged Vitae. He’d kept a sizable amount of the remainder in an obsidian jug, seeing the future potential for his own brand of potent chem. Sliding on a blue silk shirt, the Ravnos began to focus on a certain aesthetic, luxurious carpeting, big, leather recliners, wood paneling, and muted candelabra lamps on the wall. He’d bring that style back, the class and respect of Old World Vegas. He’d bring it back, one block at a time. Yes. Yes, this would make a suitable gentlemen’s club from which to start his crusade of aesthetics.

A day later, the new brick construction of the blank building Desert Oasis had become rippled. A stout oak door pushed out of the brickwork, forming a spacious but understated entrance. A single lamp was lit above the door, and the words “LUXOR SOCIAL CLUB” drew themselves in elegant script and lit up in green neon. The door opened, and a black gloved hand reached out to place a chalkboard on the wall, the words “NOW ACCEPTING APPLICANTS” visible in three inch high letters.

[Harlan Higgs]

The House Bets Against

A gramophone turned slowly in the corner, putting lively music into the cozy parlor of the refurbished Luxor Social Club. A fan turned lazily on the ceiling, pulling up a plume of smoke from the smoldering cigar in Harlan’s fingers.

He raised a tumbled full of dark red liquid to his lips, sipping the mixture of blood and fine bourbon as he relaxed. Now he felt at home in the Omniverse. Fine booze, fresh vitae, and the remnants of the previous day’s vicious slaughter rattling around his head.

He was deserving of this, of course. Just enough to remind himself of the finer things he’d had. Too much would be bad, so he’d hit the streets again later, in what he would affectionately call “community service”.

He heard the footsteps and the rusty jangle of metal approach the social club’s entrance, what sounded like a small group of people milling around outside, unsure of whether to take the risk of knocking on the dark oaken doors. The Ravnos rolled his eyes. There would have to be some, ah, retraining to undertake. Knock that rough-and-tumble street gangster nonsense out of their heads if they were to be fine, upstanding pillars of the community.

He quickly drained the rest of his drink, sticking the cigar in the corner of his mouth, and stood up. Clean, pale hands straightened his bowtie as he crossed the soft green carpet and gave the entrance parlor a final inspection. “Wait a moment, I hear you lollygagging about like a bunch of krauts waiting for the beer hall to open.”

He heard an intake of breath as the door opened, and he took stock of the assembled citizens. The remaining Metalheads, still dressed in their ramshackle armor and ripped clothing. Fear and recognition were in their eyes, followed by a dawning confusion as the altered state of their former hideout dawned on them.

They hadn’t seen the bloody carnage or the aftermath. They just knew that all of their former gang buddies had been in this building when it was sealed. Now reopened, everything was unfamiliar.

Harlan stood in front of the assembled secondaries, slowly walking up and down their line, puffing his cigar. Finally, after what was almost an incredibly awkward silence, he spoke. “So….as I'm sure you are well aware, I killed Argus. And your compatriots. Now, you had the good sense to flee before things got messy, which tells me you have a sense for danger, and more importantly, how to stay alive.”

“I respect that. It’s how I’ve lived to near a hundred years old, discretion being the better part of valor and all that.” He stuck the cigar back in his mouth, inhaled deeply, and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.

The gray vapor shimmered and coalesced into what looked like a translucent movie screen, a “greatest hits” reel being displayed in grainy black and white, images of Harlan in Vegas, gunning down gangsters, getting stabbed and thrown off a boat, and numerous other vignettes that went by too fast to really focus on.

He waved a hand and the smoke dissipated as he went on. “I’m new here in this “Omniverse”, and from what I’ve found out, anything goes. Coruscant, like many places in many societies, is built upon the backs of the less fortunate. Like yourselves. You fight and scrape and spit for the drippings of the ones upstairs. That takes heart and hardness.”

His tone softened slightly as he went on, the former Metalheads listening in rapt attention, one or two showing the fresh faced expression of keen interest. “I run the show in these parts now, as small as it is. Argus was an idiot. He had no idea how to take care of the territory. He had no idea how to be a gentleman. I am a gentleman. I understand how hard life is. And it’s my duty as someone who knows how the world works to make it just that much better for those who don’t, or can’t.”

He removed the cigar and flicked it into the air, where it burst into glowing golden sparks, Harlan tipping his bowler and grinning hungrily at his new prospects, the foundation he would rebuild his criminal enterprise on. “The money and power comes much easier with that in mind, friends.”

He had them casting off their ripped clothes and makeshift metal armor not long after that, the Ravnos leading them to the second floor. He’d turned it into a sort of common room, less formal than the entry parlor but still tastefully furnished and decorated with green lamps and muted wooden mantels.

Off to the side was a series of fitting rooms and closets, stocked with pinstripe suits, fedoras, bowler hats, and functionally tasteful skirts and blouses. The new recruits dressed themselves while Harlan toiled in the second room off the side, summoning classic Thompson Submachine Guns, snubnose .38 Pistols, baseball bats, and ice picks from memory.

Each weapon was a near perfect copy of one he’d used many times, and he could hear the former Metalheads making themselves comfortable on the couches, talking amongst themselves and voicing their apprehensions and hopes for the future.

Harlan re-entered the common room, slightly winded from the effort of stocking the armory, and joined them in the circle of seats. “Now...the hour is late, and I’m a bit tuckered from stocking the armory. So, why don’t you tell me about yourselves before we hit the hay and prepare for tomorrow?”

The first recruit to speak sat up a bit straighter, taking off the fedora he’d picked out to reveal a bald head marked with scars, one going across his nose. “Name’s Charlie. Used to be too hitter for Argus. He sent me along when they needed some muscle.”

It showed in the man’s face. He’d seen and perpetuated that good old street violence, but seemed unmarred by psychosis or chem use. And you didn't live to get very old as a hitman. Charlie gestured to the man sitting across from him, a short man with sunken lips who’d chosen to forgo a hat. “That’s Chatter. On account of he don’t shut up.” Chatter smiled and the rest of the prospects erupted into laughter. Evidently this was a preexisting joke.

The two women were sitting close to each other, one dressed in a suit, tall, brunette, with leopard spots going up her temples and down underneath her shirt. The other was dressed in a blouse and skirt, redhead, cute, with ridges on her nose and a bob haircut. She was the one who spoke. “I’m Rika Yrens, and this lovely lady with the spots is Ziadaj Adx, Zia for short.” The brunette nodded, brushing a stray hair out of Rika’s eyes.

Harlan rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Excellent. Excellent. Now, don’t stay up too late ...tomorrow we show the colors, patrol the neighborhood, and show the citizenry that there’s a new outfit in town.” He stood up and bowed, gesturing with a flourish as small pins appeared on each person’s lapel, shaped like spades.

“Welcome to the Gentlemen Jacks, fellas.”

[Harlan Higgs]

The smart, rapping sound of polished dress shoes and stiletto heels echoed along the streets of Tier 5. Trash blew in the wind as the fashionably dressed troop of Gentlemen Jacks proceeded in a slow, purposeful manner, looking down alleys and in doorways. They were visibly armed with submachine guns, baseball bats, and switchblades but appeared to be on a mission of pure reconnaissance. Harlan led the procession in his grey pinstripe suit and snazzy bowler hat, while behind him Rika and Chatter were occasionally stapling posters to telephone poles and building doors, emblazoned with the logo and address of the Luxor Social Club, along with an invitation to “get up on the line”.

Next, a derelict encampment. Harlan spoke eloquently and passionately about the neighborhood, about the raw deal that the inhabitants of the lower tiers had gotten and about how this was going to change. Things were going to get better, and he was here to kickstart the initiative. They gained a few more recruits from that one, bums and shivering junkies casting off their ragged blankets and chem use detritus to join the procession. The styles of street dweller and stylishly dressed business attire clashed horribly, but Harlan knew his little recruitment drive would be all the more effective. They would leave as broken, wretched people and return as ladies and gentlemen.

He had a surefire cure for any chem addiction his new followers suffered from, although in truth it was merely the replacement of one drug with another. No matter. His remedy didn't leave people crawling, shivering wrecks, no, quite the opposite. It gave them vitality, strength, the agency to reach out and choke a living from the throat of the system. Harlan had been cooking up this plan in his head ever since he’d seen the state of this city. It was ripe for such a scheme, the dependency on chemical escape from the dreary existence of lower tier life readily apparent from the first glass vial he crushed underneath his polished shoe.

The Ravnos let Charlie take point on the next location in the Gentlemen Jack’s whistle-stop tour of their little corner of Tier 5. He’d needed no coaching on how to introduce an “insurance” plan to the local businesses, and they were more than happy to sign up. Charlie probably had experience working with more reputable outfits in his youth before playing iceman for the Metalheads, and Harlan respected that he had an underling who understood the direction he was trying to take this in. Argus hadn’t had the brains to work up a good old fashioned protection racket, and the denizens of the Metalhead’s turf were at the mercy of the predations of rival gangs. They were all too happy to fork over reasonable deposits in exchange for the promise of a swift and merciless defensive response.

Here and there, the conman had heard mentions of “The Westside” as major players on Tier 5, and stored that info away for future reference. They had apparently coalesced out of a number of disparate gangs under the overall leadership of a charismatic young woman, and from the way the locals spoke of the coalition, Harlan was absolutely sure they would come calling against an upstart like himself. Which was why this recruitment drive was important. He needed a solid footing to be able to answer back any challenges, or to simply not be completely overrun at the negotiation tables. Which was where his junkie solution came in…

Over the next few days, the Luxor Social Club started to fill, the Ravnos expanding construction on the upper floors to include extra dormitories, housing facilities, amenities, and other such niceties. Word had spread and the Gentlemen Jacks gained a sizable boost to their numbers. From the four Harlan had started with, there were now nearly forty members, all locals or leftovers from disbanded outfits. Which was good, because it meant that they all seemed to know each other and get along rather well. That sense of brotherhood would only grow once Harlan had perfected his ‘miracle supplement”, which is why he was currently crouched over staring at a glass beaker with a scrawny, weaselly man by the name of Lazlo.

Lazlo was a cook, and not the food kind. He’d been with most of the older gangs that made heavy money off of the chem trade, with a quickness of wit and fleetness of foot that had kept him alive through lab explosions, stormtrooper raids, and gang wars. Another survivor, like Harlan himself. “Soz you wanted to cut up Slip with something else, boss?” Lazlo asked. Slip was a fairly standard chem, a yellowish-brown powder that when eaten or snorted acted like an amphetamine.

“I did. Something I learned how to make back home, real easy. But it doesn’t have much effect unless it’s cut with an upper, see?” Harlan produced a jar of dark red powder, the substance flaky and somewhat shiny. This was in fact his own blood, dried and preserved using a handy little Thaumaturgic ritual he’d scammed a southern Tremere into teaching him. Harlan would, of course, not be explaining the finer details of the properties of vampiric blood to his cook, nor the rest of his gang. All they needed to know was that when they took it, they would feel healthier than they ever had before.

Lazlo took the jar and proceeded to open it up, inspecting the powder and rolling it around to see how it moved. “Looks pretty fine...gonna have to process the Slip a bit more to make sure it mixes properly, but should make a pretty good product.” Harlan nodded, quite pleased with the way things had been going. With this new chem distributed, the people of the neighborhood would find themselves much more amiable to the Ravnos and his operations. Which was good, because he needed more of those ‘credits’ they used here as currency, and was considering scoping out an upper tier bank as target for a heist.

“Oh, and one more thing, Boss. What do you want this to be called? Needs a snappy name, something to market it as.”

Heh. That was easy. Vampire blood and speed?

“It’s called Amaranth.”

[Luci]

"Cody Chode wants to know if his band will still be playing tomorrow night," says Charlie, apparently without shame.

"What?" replies Harlan distractedly.

"Cody Chode, of 'Cody Chode and the Face Fuckers'. They are booked at what is now the Luxor Social Club every month for the next year," he explains.

Harlan's face freezes at the word 'face-fuckers' and does not move. "What the fuck did you just say to me?" he asks with venom in his voice.

"They are a uh, a musical act," Charlie stutters. "Cody Chode and the Face Fuc-"

"Don't you ever speak that name to me again. No, absolutely not, there will no chode fuckers at the Luxor," Harlan says firmly.

"Yes sir," says Charlie hastily. "Although, the kids will be quiet distraught at the loss of such a beloved public figure."

"Cody Chode is a beloved public figure?" Harlan asks in disbelief. His assistant shrugs.

"Of course," Charlie suggests "you can cancel it, and the kids will have no where to dance, and that is when they start to burn things, in my experience."

"Yeah yeah, the kids, they need something to do after school, right?" Harlan mumbles. He runs his hands through his hair, wondering what a pillar of the community would do in such a situation. "All right you get this, this Cody Chode Fucker, get the kids whatever they want, but not at my social club. What about that rat trap bar we’re trying to class up?”

“The Top Kek?” Charlie asks nervously. “That’s kind of a rough area still.”

“That’s why I’ll be there, to make sure things don’t get out of hand,” Harlan explains patiently. “I’ll be the chaperone.”

“Chaperone?”

“Host,” Harlan corrects himself. “I’ll be hosting.”

***

In a piano bar in Teir-5, a cloud of cigar smoke coalesces into a beautiful greyscale woman. She is dressed elegantly but simply, delicately clutching a cigarette holder in her black-gloved hand. She rotates slowly on her bar stool, taking in her surroundings. Her eyes pass over the strange tentacled creatures arguing over a game of darts and come to rest on a male Twi'lek playing a piano beautifully.

The woman's tiny hips sway as she walks across the bar. She smiles at the pianist briefly before hopping up on his piano and stretching out on it luxuriously. She watches his nimble fingers casually perform a Jerry Lee Lewis riff she had never heard before. Her eyes go wide.

"Well," she says breathily as the song ends. "If that's not the eels ankles."

Trying hard not to analyze the compliment, the Twi'lek flashes a cheesy grin at the beautiful grey woman. "Thanks, I wrote it. Here's a piece I call, well, what's your name now?"

The woman blushes, though it's hard to tell in black and white. "Audrey."

"I call this one, 'Audrey'" he says, stretching her name out into three syllables. The twi'lek croons out an off key version of 'Peggy-Sue', replacing each 'peggy-sue' with an out of time 'aud-er-y'.

Audrey could hardly remember to breathe.

"Gosh," she says as the song ends, then adds "Gosh."

The Twi'lek has the good grace to pretend to be humble. "You just inspire me," he says simply. "Hey, I'm gonna get off soon. Are you...new?"

Audrey nods. "Yes, I think I'm...new."

Several hours later Audrey is taking a tour of the Twi'leks apartment. It is small, what some would call shitty.

"So," Audrey asks innocently "Who runs that joint?"

"Hmm?" asks the Twi'lek as he removes his shirt. "Oh, Top Kek? That fat old bartender."

Audrey scrunches her nose. "He doesn't seem very...classy."

The Twi'lek laughs. "Oh the piano and the fucking felt? Donated, this guy is donating pianos and shit to the bars. He's a great guy," vouches the alien truthfully; indeed, it was a lot easier for him to pick up girls now that pianos are available in seedy bars. He gauges the elegant woman's reaction correctly. "You know, he'll be there tomorrow. I have some pull with him; why don't I introduce you?"

Audrey smiles demurely as his hand presses against her lower back. "That sounds wonderfull," she says as she lean to kiss his chest. "But I think I can find him myself," she says sadly.

The Twi'lek gasps as a pair of razorsharp fangs plunge into his heart.

***

An orc in an orange track suit by the name of Hrarg pushes open the door to a dry cleaners in Teir-5, causing a tiny bell to ring. An old Nibllonian woman is sitting behind the counter, watching the orc behind three slitted eyes.

"Number?" she asks in a thick Niblonian accent, the eyeball atop her stalk glaring.

The orc sighs and hands over a number, and a crumpled dollar bill. The two stare at each other as the automated rack moves his matching tracksuit to the front. The old Niblonian woman hands the orc his suit.

"Need change," grumbles Hrarg.

"No," says the Niblonian firmly. "Already pay."

Hrarg tenses. This is now the third time today he has heard this story. "No, you didn't pay ME," he insists, drool dripping from his tusks.

The Niblonian is unfazed. "No, already pay. Pay Gentleman Jacks. You go collect from them."

The orcs claws dig into the counter and he growls. The shop-owner glares back. They both look up as they hear the bell on the front door jingle.

A young blonde man in a bowler hat and three-piece-suit is grinning politely at the entrance, holding the door open. His friend pops his head through, another handsome young man in a bowler hat, this one with brown hair. The pair sidle up to Hrarg, leaning on the counter on either side of him.

"Is there a...problem here?" the blonde one asks, a toothpick hanging out of his mouth.

The orc grunts. "You know who I work for?" he asks slowly.

"We got a pretty good idea," responds his brown-haired friend. "You know who WE work for?" he asks, leaning into the orcs ear.

"I have pretty good idea," Hrarg growls.

The blonde laughs. "You never had a good idea in your life. But I'll give you one for free; fuck off," he says genially.

The orc grabs the blonde by the lapel, but his friend brings the long barrel of his six shooter up against the orcs temple.

"Now don't make me get blood all over my stupid fucking suit," he whispers to the orc, who gently lets the blonde man down. "That's right."

"Will be back," the orc warns as he exits the store, tracksuit over his shoulder.

"You better bring a fucking army next time!"

***

Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons, is sitting in a small one-bedroom home in Teir-5 drinking a beer. When his son arrives from school he turns the T.V. off.

"It is good to see you, Kilgrot" Kolgoth says, struggling to bridge the gap that had arose between him and his son. "How was school?" he asks in his rumbling baritone.

"It was ok," replies the moody Kilgrot. Silence hangs in the air for a moment. "Dad, I bought some drugs at school today."

Kolgoth the Mighty nods calmly and grips his armchair. He breathes deeply as his worst fears are confirmed.

"It's ok I've... I've known for a while now," Kolgoth confesses.

"Don't be stupid, I'm not on drugs," Kilgrot says, offended. Kolgoth lets out a sigh. "I just, I thought you might want to get a look at it. It's everywhere right now, all my friends are taking it, even the Klingons. They're not on hard stuff, they say you don't WANT to do anything else when you're on it. It's called Amaranth," he says as he tosses a sealed red packet to his father.

Kolgoth inspects it carefully.

"It also makes them...act funny. Like stupid. They start using words I've never heard before like," Kilgoth rolls his eyes "Ring-a-ding-ding and doll-face. And they're listening to the stupidest music."

"Did you ask where you could get some more?" Kolgoth asks seriously.

Kilgrot grins. "Yeah, the guy gave me this," he says as he hands over a flyer.

***

"We've taken four new corners today, on Hover Ave from 3.14th Street to 9.75th Street. The Metalheads haven't done anything," reports Flobber Worm, a heavily pierced young Hufflepunk boy. "Actually, no ones fucking seen them for days."

"Well fuck," responds Weasel, the red-haired leader of the Westside Hufflepunk drug empire. "How much money did you make?"

"Uh, not that much," Worm responds sheepishly while Weasel glares. "I mean, they're basically dead corners. Everyone's looking for Amaranth."

"Amaranth? Fuck is that?" says Weasel distastefully. Worm shrugs. "You couldn't get some?" she asks.

"I could, if I was allowed to go north of Hover," he responds fairly.

"So go," says Weasel, as if explaining to a child. "You have mommy's permission."

Flobber Worm stares for just a moment. "Don't you need council authorization?" he asks quietly.

"I don't need council authorization to take a piss, or to tell my goons they can walk where they fucking want," Weasel says, her voice level starting to rise. Worm nods quietly.

Weasel's Westside-phone rings. She holds up a single finger to quiet Worm.

"Hello?" she says in her most grown-up voice.

The deep baritone of Kolgoth's voice comes through the other line. "Hello, Weasel? This is Kolgoth the Mighty, President of the Mighty Westside Klingons. Is this Weasel?"

Weasel sighs. "Yeah, hi Kolgoth, what's up big guy??"

"My son bought drugs!" the Klingon yells into the receiver.

"Ah jeez man," stutters Weasel nervously. "I mean, we don't sell to kids as a general rule, and Klingon kids, that's like, a very specific no-no-"

"I know you did not sell the drugs," the Klingons says, more calmly this time. "And I know where to get more. I request that you escort one of my Mighty Westside Klingons on a reconnaissance mission. The mission in question will require attending a rock-and-roll event, and we request your help in navigating this unfamiliar arena."

"What?" asks Weasel. "You want us to get you drugs? We can just, you know, GET you drugs, dude."

"I do not think you can get this drug," says the Klingon says dryly. "Have you heard of Amaranth?"

***

This is how Girg the Indomitable, First Lieutenant of the Mighty Westside Klingons, ends up sulking in the back of the Top Kek surrounded by rowdy, pierced, brightly-haired teenagers.

On either side of the towering Klingon, blending easily into the crowd, are Hufflepunks; a pair of twin witches, one of them named Danny and the other named Dungbomb. Their matching blue mohawks make them hard to tell apart.

"I don't see any Metalheads," says one of the twins.

"Or smell any," says the other. She grabs a seemingly random passerby, a young dwarf in a leather jacket. "Carl!"

"My name's Gordoujettun," says the Dwarf dryly. "What do you want?"

The Hufflepunk is unfazed. "Where's all the Metalheads? Isn't this their party?"

The dwarf shrugs. "Metals out. Jacks are in."

The twins nod gravely as the Klingon scowls.

“Hey,” says Dungbomb to her sister. “I’m gonna go score some Amaranth. Try to keep John Cena here from clotheslining anyone.”

A vein twitches on one of Kirg’s foreheads.

***

Across the room, a beautiful woman rendered all in shades of grey watches the Westsiders carefully.

***

A trio of orcs shuffle quietly through the crowd towards the stage. The are careful to keep their guns concealed beneath their jackets.

***

Everyone's attention is brought to the stage as the lights go down.

[Harlan Higgs]

This was not the scene Harlan had expected when he agreed to sponsor Cody Chode and the Fabulous Fucks or whatever their name was. He was backstage, looking out through the curtain at the teeming club full of young, trashy adolescents. "Chris." He hissed through his teeth. It wasn't like he'd expected the whole of Tier 5 to be like 1940's New York City, all class and work and wartime fervor. Or maybe he had. This was much more like his visit during the 80's. Actually, exactly like his visit during the 80's. Down to the unwashed, greasy band members that looked indistinguishable from each other.

"Listen, you fellas seem to be local heroes here, so uh...just mention the Gentlemen Jacks present this show and do your thing. Try not to incite any riots, the carpets and the paneling are already going to need replacement after this show." Cody himself nodded and slipped on a giant pair of headphones, with a notch cut out of his esoteric hairdo for the headband. Harlan rolled his eyes harder than he ever thought possible, and made his way back to the front of the house. He passed by the bartender, the man already fumbling with a pair of earplugs and a tube of heart medication. not a bad idea. The earplugs, anyway.

A black pair of rubber plugs coalesced out of nothing, and the Ravnos took stock of his first official community event. By the Lady of Chance herself, he had his work cut out for him if he was going to turn these kids into upstanding wiseguys. But then again, maybe he could only hope to spread some of his influence. He wasn't a dictator. If they picked up at least a fifth of his whole shtick, he'd be happy. 

He'd been spoiled by Ocean City, he realized. The only reason he'd been able to entertain such a complete cultural transformation of the tourist town was its rather small size and isolation from the major metropolitan city center of Baltimore. The threadbare barrier between the real world and the maya of the dream realm probably played a huge part, he mused. Oh well. Maybe that could be a project for the future. If this Omniverse had anything approaching the dream realm.

Cody Chode spat into the microphone and the crowd went wild, screaming loud enough to make the hundred year old man flinch, even through the earplugs. The shit he went through sometimes. "Heeelllooooooo, Top Keeeeek!" Mr. Chode announced. Harlan would have to change the name of the bar eventually. "Tonight's show is brought to you by the Gentlemen Jacks, along with a little something extra!" The Kindred froze as the band leader pulled a fistful of little bags of red powder from his pocket. "God FOOKING damnit!" Harlan swore, lapsing into his natural irish brogue. This was not part of the plan, and the out of place gentleman moved to the very edges of the room to stand with some of the older Jacks who were equally perturbed by the display. 

As the bags hit the crowd, the night's entertainment started up and the most horrendous cacophony poured from the very fine speakers Harlan had so graciously purchased for the show. "Now let's fucking ROOOOOOOCCCCCKKKKK!!!!!"

Oh, For F***'s Sake

Harlan had to clasp his hands over his ears, the dead tympanic membrane in his head vibrating uncomfortably. "_____ ______ ____ _____?" He screamed at his lieutenant. The man just shrugged, utterly unable to hear anything. Before them, the crowd of unruly teens was shoving each other and jumping up and down, singing along to the vulgar lyrics. Their heads slammed back and forth fast enough to cause whiplash, hands thrust in the air in weird gang signs. Although, there was no conflict. Everyone was united in the horrible auditory chaos of sonic vibration.

Except for three orc men who were standing uncomfortably still, their eyes darting to and fro as they started to lean forward, pushing and shoving skinny gutter punks out of the way as they moved towards the front of the room, to the raised platforms next to the stage that the sound technicians were stationed on. Time slowed down as Harlan watched them move, their clothes far too heavy for this type of environment. So many warm bodies produced enough heat to fry an egg on the floor. They could only be concealing...

"___!" Harlan shouted at the top of his lungs. His guards looked at him for clarification, but the music was far too loud for verbal communication. He clasped the shirt  of the man closest to him and waved his hand in the man's face, his index finger outstretched and thumb pointed upwards. "___!" He shouted again, and pointed towards the orcs. But their lack of stealth had been noticed, and he saw one of the youths (sporting a bright blue mohawk) grab the orc and rear back a fist, socking the troublemaker in the jaw. At this, his other two compatriots pulled sub-compact laser guns out of their coats and fired into the ceiling.
And all Hell broke loose.

[Tearen Wover]

The high pitched whine of the Varial Tetrion echoed raucously though the dimly lit transit tube down to Tier 5. Even inside the hermetically sealed cockpit, Drake could hear the turbocharged intakes shrieking as he drafted from lane to lane, causing more near misses in the span of a minute than this entire skyway had seen in the course of a week. The black, bullet-like fuselage of the flying bike gleamed angrily in the dirty yellow light, its single LED headlight blinding every person that Drake pulled up behind. Honestly the smuggler was surprised that anyone down here bothered following any traffic laws. Then again, putting any number of random civvies behind the wheels extremely fast flying cars tended to put the fear of god in the common man.

Luckily for him, he had no god to fear.

That was kind of a tacky line.

Whatever.

Drake wrenched his Tetrion into an off ramp (across three lanes) into the depths of the Fifth Tier. It was a filthy, dangerous part of Coruscant, and it was currently the place that Drake called home. Well. Home was probably a bit of a misnomer, it was the place with the greatest number of his safehouses. Drake was not a rich secondary, by any means, but he did well in comparison to a Prime who could literally make money out of nothing. As long as he kept his ride in good repair, there was not much he chose to complain about.

Bedlam and mayhem were some of those few things. It wasn't as if he constantly relied on Tier 5 being a particularly safe place to be, but his general part of the neighborhood was at least quiet. So, when he eased his Tetrion into its aerial mooring outside his third floor apartment balcony, he was a little upset to see the local dive down the street in the middle of a riot. Violent flashes of red burst out from the windows, momentarily painting the smog of the street in the color of very fresh blood.

"Fuckin' Metalheads." Drake cursed, briefly peeking into his satchel to check on his plasma derringer's charge level. Full bar. A sensible person would have refrained from going anywhere near a bar that had people spilling out of it like a tidal wave of human shit, but bars had drugs, and drugs were money.

...better take the katana for good measure.

As Drake half-jogged down the street, hand jammed into his left pocket, the sounds of the commotion became more clear. There were lots of different kinds of laser gun in Corsucant, but only one had the sort of rugged, digital buzzsaw sound that was coming from inside the Top Kek. Drake poked his head around one of the broken windows, and his suspicions were confirmed. Orkz. Looked like several people were already dead or dying on the floor. The band was still playing though.

Drake rolled his eyes. Artists.

Alright, so how to turn this situation into a profit...

The one-armed man clambered through the shattered plate glass, crouched low to the ground. Red lines of hot death screamed over his head, and people clamored all around him, trying to get the hell out of dodge. Despite the deadly mosh pit, Drake eventually found a corpse, and immediately began picking through the pockets. Hmm...Keys, pocket sanitizer (these people and their damn piercings.), Ooh keep the flash drive, a little blow, assorted pills...wait, what was this red shit? Keep the red shit.

Drake jammed the liberated merchandise into his satchel and pivoted on his feet, keeping a low profile. Let's see...who was next...

[Luci]

The trio of orcs stood impressively in a circle for a moment of complete silence. One of them, a tall brown orc with sunglasses, levels his gun casually at Harlan. A pair of Jacks move menacingly forward, but are stopped by a quick raised finger from Harlan.

"Now listen up-" the orc begins to say.

He is cut short by a gut-wrenching scream from his compatriot, who is currently having his guts wrenched from him by Kirg the Indomitable. The Klingon growls as he buries a wickedly curved blade deep into the orcs stomach.

The crowd breaks as the remaining orcs spin around and let fire with their submachine guns, shooting tiny bolts of bright red lights. The witches conjure a shield charm, pushing both parties back about five feet as the lasers fly. The witches start dueling, taking turns casting shield charms and stunners, while the orcs keep up a steady spray of bullet fire that ricochet into the fleeing crowd.

Harlan frowns and snaps his fingers. Small yellow tendrils appear from beneath the floor boards. The fighters all find themselves standing on banana peels and within seconds have fallen prone and helpless.

"You cats like bananas?" asks Harlan as he stares down at them. He peels a banana as he saunters over.

"Fuck your bananas," one of the orcs says as he rises. "We got guns."

"Are you sure?" asks Harlan seriously. "That don't look like no gun."

The orc growls but to his astonishment, realizes he is holding Harlan's half-peeled banana.

"So," says Harlan as he raises the barrel of the orc's sub machine gun. "I asked you politely, and I'm only going to do that one more time. Do you cats like bananas?"

The orc roars and rears back his hand to throw the banana at Harlan.

Harlan lets off ten shots into the orcs chest, and lights a cigar with the tip of his smoking barrel.

"Well how ya like them bananas?" he asks to the nearly deserted dance hall. Only a few gangsters and injured civilians remain, and Cody Chode passed out on the stage. Also a robot, seemingly unaware that the commotion has died down as he collects cash and drugs from the barroom floor.

Harlan eyes the last remaining orc, one with matted fur and a patched leather jacket. The orc is seething, saliva dripping from his tusks, but his gun pointed at the floor.

"Fuck you waiting for, hit the bricks," suggests Harlan. The orc does not move. "You got melons for ears, monkey boy?"

"He's waiting for his gang," explains one of the twin witches, glaring at the orc. The orc grins.

Harlan rolls up his sleeves. "Yeah? Well me too."

The orc starts to laugh as the thundering sound of Harley Davidson mufflers fills the bar. A window is shattered by a shotgun blast and headlights stream in through the broken window. The Westside gangsters appear nervous and move into a tight circle, but they needn't have bothered.

A chorus of orcish screams erupts from outside the bar as blood splashes in through the open window. A gun is fired, then more orcish screams, then nothing. A pair of high-heels can be heard click-clacking on the pavement before the front door is pushed open, and a beautiful greyscale woman creeps demurely into the bar.

"Excuse me," she says with a flirty smile as she dabs at a huge smear of blood running down her neck with a dainty silk handkerchief.

The orc stops laughing.

[Harlan Higgs]

Well, this whole thing had gone about as south as a federal marshal in Mexico. His entertainment was currently passed out on the stage, taken out by a stray bottle. There were three other people standing somewhat close together, an orc on the floor, and what looked like a living movie gal right in the doorframe. 

Harlan tossed the gun away, where the robotic man scooped it up with his sticky fingers. The vampire shot him a look and growled. "If you're just here to play Boss Tweed at the buffet, then twenty three skidoo. Now, if you want to maybe help these poor kids get out on the street, you can call the doc wagon. I got problems of my own."

He kicked the remaining orc viciously in the side with his wingtips, and looked over at Audrey, motioning her inside. "I suppose I have to you to thank for icing those loutish backups he was so confident were coming?" The woman nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke across the room and clicking forward on her stilettos. Red smoke. Good god, she was familiar. Something about her was at once familiar but also offputting. "Twas a nice, neighborly thing to do, Mister Higgs."

"Excuse us, but we believe you have some ques-" One of the witches began, but was interrupted by a roar from Kirg the Klingon. "You are Higgs? You are insidiously moving into our turf! Westside turf!" He drew a knife, moving it in a complicated pattern, and when he was finished, pointed it at his own breastplate. "This is dishonorable and will not stand!"

Harlan had to fight a laugh and shot the alien man finger guns. "That's absolutely charming. I like that, I really do. You a circus man as well? Do tricks?" Kirg roared and made as if to attack the suited gentleman, but his blue haired compatriots stopped him by waving their own fancy sticks, an invisible force holding his arms back.

"Listen, Higgs. We were like...sent here to investigate this stuff." She holds up a packet of Amaranth. "Chems are Hufflepunks business. You sell 'em, you go through us, dig? Or else Weasel puts the notice out and it's open season on any motherfucker in a doofy suit." Harlan actually clapped his hands together and laughed. 

"Wonderful. Strictly business, is it? While I appreciate your attempts to minimize the casualties from Fucky Tusko and his Boys down here," He said, punctuating his words with another rib shattering kick from his wingtip, "This is hardly the place. I have to clean up this fucking mess and run damage control."

At that, a contingent of Jacks burst in the door, guns drawn and looking for action. "Uh, boss, we came as fast as the runner got to us, but uh....them fuckin' orcs is liquified, literally." Audrey waved at them, wiping a bit of blood from her lips. "This classy dame right here is thank for that." Harlan said matter of factly. 

The robot man had run out of bodies to loot and was edging out of the broken windows to go loot the orcs outside when Harlan added, "Oh, and introduce mister graverobber here to our famous hospitality. Gently, now." Three of the younger Jacks started to approach him with nefarious intent. "Come on, clink. Boss wants you to come back to the Club."

The Ravnos turned his attention back to the Westsiders. "Like I said, bad place to talk business. The blood is making my teeth itch." He flashed his fangs to punctuate. "In any case? You want this orc trash, he's yours. Him and his gang don't know what box of mints they just opened. And if you want to talk real business regarding Amaranth, or any other serious, respectable issues..."

He gestured with his fingers, a small piece of paper forming from nothing. A ticket, marked with a spiral pattern and a glowing purple cross. "You give your boss that and tell them to meet me in the clouds. If they can." Now all he had to do was try and enter that hole he'd been sensing, permeating through in alleys and wherever people were dreaming.

[Tearen Wover]

So then a pale skinned guy in a zoot suit came out on the stage and started running the show like some kind of Capone wannabe. Something about tweed? Drake didn't think he'd ever worn tweed ever, once, in his entire life. I mean the general message of 'get the fuck out' was pretty clear so okay. Drake started to finish up with his current corpse and exit the way he came, but then zoot-suit called in a few mooks.

With...tommy guns.

"Whoa, wait, that uh..." Drake gestured helplessly at Harlan, "...guy asked me to leave so I'm leavin'. I'm gone. Easy."

The thugs in cummerbunds just gawked and got closer.

"Boss wants you back inside now. So just trot along, capiche?" one of the mooks said in a thick, twangy accent. Boston? Was that somone's lame attempt at a Boston accent?

That couldn't be right.

No, it was more of a northern-

"Ow!" Drake bitched as one of the suited youths prodded him in the back with the barrel. Alright, fine. Drake trudged back into the Top Kek with a very forced pout on his face. In reality, and as per the norm, he scarcely gave a damn about the situation. It wasn't as if he hadn't been in dozens like it before. They marched him up to the lip of the stage where Harlan lorded over the ruins of the club, full mobster style. Drake kinda chuckled. Harlan noticed.

"So, what's your scoop there crumb? I'm guessing you didn't pay the cover when you waltzed in." Harlan said, idly examining the edges of his fingernails. Drake started blubbering. It was very sad.

"No, wait, bwoss. You gots da wrong guy! It wasn't me it was the one armed man!" Drake said, abruptly looking down at the stump where his right arm should be. He looked back up at Harlan with a sheepish grin.

"Oh."

Harlan offered a polite smile and nodded his head. One of the Hufflepunks legit laughed and everyone shot her a dirty look.

"Listen. Here's the skinny Jimbo. If you're hurting for cabbage that bad, you feel free to roll with me and my boys. We got lots of spare suits-"

"Not while Westside claims these streets!" Interjected the Klingon. No one paid attention.

"-in the back. Why not roll with the real wise guys? Otherwise I can get you a nice Chicago Overcoat, I'm sure." Harlan said, waving his own death threat away with a dismissive hand. Drake just gawked at Harlan for a moment.

"Oh my god you actually talk like that." Drake said. The Hufflepunk girl snickered again and Drake ripped his plasma derringer out of his pocket, pointing it directly in the girl's face.

"Laugh again! Laugh again! Go on laugh it up you bwitch!" Drake shouted. The Hufflepunkette reached for her wand but Drake's right eye twitched in a very unsettling way and she thought better of it. "By the way, real quick on the draw there kiddos." the smuggler said, glancing back at the suits who had renewed the grip on their guns.

"Actually as long as I have my gun out I do have one question for the uh...doll?" Drake said, nodding at the grayscale lady. The chiaroscuro woman offered him a small kiss with her black lips. Drake offered a friendly smile back.

"So when you poop is it also-"

Drake didn't get to finish his sentence, since next thing he knew he was sprawled halfway across the club, face up. Someone grabbed him by the lapels, and Drake found himself face to face with Harlan.

"...and this one..." Harlan hissed, pounding the secondary in the gut.

"...is for making me TOUCH you. Now genius..." Harlan said, holding Drake aloft, whispering into the smuggler's disfigured ears, "...give me one good reason why I shouldn't have my 'kiddos' toss some lead your way."

Drake coughed up just a little bit of blood (just a little bit, I swear) and grinned over Harlan's shoulder.

"Because...you wouldn't want me to embarrass you in your own bar." Drake said with a growing chuckle. Harlan started laughing too. The warmth of Drake's neck so close to his teeth was making him twitchy.

"Oh yeah? And how do you propose to do that?" the vampire said flatly.

"Ever been hit by a flying motorcycle?"

"...what?"

"Clench your butt."

In the next instant, Drake had planted his feet on Harlans chest and pushed off as Drake's Tetrion skybike came crashing through the front door. The smuggler completed the somersault by landing flawlessly in the Tetrion's saddle, while the bike's nose smashed Harlan like a battering ram. Wind and noise blared into the confines of the bar as Drake cranked the accelerator and wheeled the black skybike back out through the entrance.

"I am actually interested in that whole job thing by the way 'kay thanks bye!" Drake shouted, just as machine gun fire began to rip open the air around him. A blast of hot engine wash, and the smuggler was gone, the engines of his Tetrion fading into normal subdued chaos of the Tier 5 nightlife...

[Luci]

The three Westside gangsters collectively flinch as the skybike collides with Harlan, caving in his chest and snapping his neck on impact. They duck down as the bullets rain, Dungbomb and Danny creating Shield Charms around themselves and Kirg. When the robot has left and the gunfire dies down, they raise cautiously to their feet. Harlan Higgs, a powerful enemy of the Orc Mafia and the only known Amaranth connection in Coruscant, lay twisted and broken on the floor of the Top Kek. Then they hear a snap.

"That's not right," says Kirg as Harlan's ribs start to snap back into place. Harlan rises to his feet, his head hanging loosely by a broken neck.

Danny hides Dungbomb's eyes with here hands, and Dungbomb hides Danny's eyes with her hands. The twins each open their hands a tiny bit around the others eyes so they can peek through.

Harlan reaches up and twists his neck back into place with a deep cracking sound that echos around the bar. He dusts himself off and smiles at the Westsiders.

"You know the way out, I'm sure," Harlan says. Not asks.

"Uh," says Danny intelligently.

"Hey um, can you book our band?" asks Dungbomb. "We could never play here when the Metalheads ran it."

"What," says Harlan. Not asks.

"You're Dungbomb, right?" Audrey interjects. "You play bass for the Bludgers?"

"Yeah!" says Dungbomb brightly. "You've seen us?" she asks specifically; a lot of people could claim to have 'heard' the Bludgers, and have, in police reports.

The greyscale woman nods. "You know..." she says to Harlan.

"Table it," says Harlan, with a wave of his hand. Dungbomb grins. Kirg grunts.

"Oh yeah," says Danny, reaching into her leather jacket and pulling out a crumpled note and handing it to Harlan.

Harlan browses the note, on which is written three names, and some descriptions.

Jorshefuttin "Shorty" Dri'gaklia, Male, Dwarf, hammer tattoos on fists
Vai'oni Kotay'll, Male, Twilek, Yellow
Neil "Ravenblood" Fumph, Male, Goth

"Those are the guys," says Danny "That are pushing YOUR drugs in schools."

Harlan looks down at the list, then back up at the Westside, who stare resolutely back. Harlan nods.

"Understood."

***