Monday, 11 June 2012

In Which I Hold A Job Interview

You might have read that last report. Something 1A said stuck out.

"We've been cured"
And she kept up with it after I started cutting, oddly enough.
Now, this piqued the boss's interest as much as it did mine. Someone has been spreading lies to these poor, naive little fucks. So I elected to do some footwork and sniff out the disseminator of this awful rumour. Pro bono publico, you understand.

Someone has to be putting these ideas in your silly little heads, and I had a good idea who. After all, the rest of that little exchange included the name of the boss's absolute favourite person. So without further ado, I'll be getting on to the point.

Presented for your approval, Case #44531 [M101]

I tracked the rumour down by means of an initially uncooperative colleague. (I'm sure his hand will be fine in a month or two and besides you only need one hand to fill out reports. Maybe it'll free up someone useful to cover for him.)
He'd run into another case of this particular delusion and once I'd broken a few of his fingers was quite precise as to where the individual had been found. I'll cut out the next three hours of bumming around and one brief interlude of violence. Suffice it to say, I finally got a decent lead.

The particular prevaricating prick that my lead produced was holed up in a dingy bar. He seemed to fancy himself a bit of a mafioso. Now, procedure dictates that in an M101 case, one not engage without sufficient backup, in case there are bastards with guns and swat gear hiding somewhere nearby.

That being said, what's the fun in waiting? So I strolled in and I was very disappointed. There were five guys. Total. The guy behind the bar had a shotgun underneath the counter, two very heavyset gentlemen with guns at the door, our... recruiter, and his bodyguard in the back of the room. So I put on an act.

My performance of "Tired and frightened runner" wasn't one for the books but none of them were the sharpest tools in the shed. Hell, there are blunt instruments sharper than some of this lot.

The recruiter, one Mr. "White" (incidentally the colour of his suit) talked a big game, about how his "organization" would be able to cure me but that he didn't have the supply on hand (for obvious reasons). To his credit, he had enough brains not to let me anywhere near him without one of the big guys behind me. So not a complete idiot.

I'm surprised that the bodyguard didn't draw on me, he looked to be the only one who really knew what he was doing. Probably one of the swat goons. It was odd.
In fact, the whole thing smelt... funny. I mean, the two heavies looked like they'd have tried to tear me apart with their bare hands before drawing their guns, and the bodyguard had this funny way of staring at things. Kind of like he was seeing something wasn't there. And not in the usual sort of way.
Whatever it was, it slowed him down enough that he didn't quite reach his gun in time. He caught a knife in the throat. The barman on the other hand seemed to know what he should be doing and managed to get both of his shots off. Thankfully it wasn't a very good shotgun. Pulls to the right quite a bit and the barman must have thought he was Rambo, firing from the hip like that. It royally fucked up his aim much to the chagrin of the goon behind me.

Bit of really bad luck for him, great for me. He'd just grabbed me in a fucking bear hug when the shotgun blast meant for me hit him. (Like I said, it pulls to the right) Dead centre, too. If he'd weighed about 200 pounds less it would have knocked him right off of his feet. As it was he made a pretty good shield from the second blast, when he fell on top of me. Managed to get his gun though, so it sort of worked out.

The second heavy just came out swinging. Didn't even bother going for his gun. I managed to push his buddy out from on top of me. Barely. I tried to get a shot off and he swung at my head. Had to slide under a table to get away from him. Gave me a second to shoot him though, thank god. Lucky break, it could have ended badly, whatever the fuck he was on the man was strong as an ox. And about twice as big. A good swing and I'd be nursing quite a few broken ribs I think. At best.

That just left the barman, now frantically trying to reload his gun crouched behind the counter, and of course our rumourmonger. I unloaded the rest of my gun into the bar. It was made of plywood. Work out what happened for yourself.

Getting down to business. Our now frantic rumourmonger is trying vainly to get the gun out from the safety holster that his goon escort was wearing. The point of a safety holster is that other people aren't supposed to be able to get the gun out of it.
We had a short discussion, and I decided to bring him in for questioning. He also had a rather nice suit, which I borrowed after I knocked him out. About this time there was a knock at the back door. I borrowed the suit in question and went to see what the fuss was.

Well worth the trouble. Two more runners. The back room was used for poker games, and apparently walk-in cases hoping to get this "cure".
"Come on in boys. Have a seat."
We chat for a bit before it becomes quickly obvious that these two don't know a thing. They'd heard the information third-hand. At best. Might as well make the most of the opportunity.

"Well, our organization is small, but there's a lot of room for enterprising individuals such as yourselves. Well, I say a lot..." People become remarkably cooperative when you point a gun at them. "We've got one opening available right now, so here's a thought." Toss one of my knives between the two of them. "Call it a practical assessment. Winner gets the spot." Very cooperative.

I think young Mr. Robinson will do just fine incidentally. A little sloppy but I personally think he's got a lot of potential. So that should help a little with the lack of people to do work around here.

Let me make one thing abundantly clear little darlings. There's not a cure for our particular brand of fucked up. You want to go drink the kool-aid? Fine. Be my guest. It means that we're going to kill you. Or you can be smart little runners and stay the hell away from the likes Mr. "White" and maybe live a little longer.


  1. So my question is... What the hell ARE they giving these people to make them think it is a cure?

    1. I'm thinking drugs.
      Fabulous drugs.

    2. So the drugs that these guards were on and that Morningstar accidentally ingested are the alleged cure?

    3. Maybe? Where the hell is Trips... Shouldn't he be taunting us and unwittingly giving us hints to use like a good evil minion?

    4. Sorry, not my department.
      My work all falls under the "shooting nosy bastards" umbrella.

  2. My my, pitting one cornered runner against the other to decide which one gets to sell their soul. Color me impressed, I don't care what shade that happens to be.