,Independence Inn, around 10 pm, Sunday the 28th, July 2024. Waning crescent, clear sky.
Vince slowly approached the Independent. Gill, his favorite little smoll marshmallow, had warned him about the place.
It sounded like the kind of place filled to the brim with people Vince hated. Still, it was the one place where he could easily find what he was looking for.
Also, he had run out of money, and stealing from those folks wouldn't make him lose any sleep.
A moment he stopped outside to inspect the collected mid-life-crisis that were the oversized vehicles parking outside. He walked from car to car, giving all the political stickers a quick look.
Confederate flag, confederate flag, oh, a gadsden flag, some trump-stickers, and… yes, finally, a NRA-sticker, inviting anyone to help themselves to guns from the cold, dead hands of the vehicle's owner.
Vince didn't quite want to go that far, but he took a quick look at the back seat.
No visible guns were stored there.
Vince was disappointed. Was this even america?
Well, he had stalled long enough
The time of saloon-doors were over, but Vince still did his best to stride into the room with his best cowboy impression. Wild haired, and with his leather jacket, he still looked like a biker.
Beneath, he had chosen one of the shirts of his collections that probably would create the least trouble around. It was black and had a single skull in the middle.
As long as no one recognized a makhnovist skull, it seemed neutral, right?
For a moment, Vince stood in the middle of the room, still emitting stranger-vibes.
His eyes took the room in, the guys at the pool table, the rifle on the wall behind the bar, the hard liquor that was all around. Then he lifted his head and his voice.
"What does a god-fearing american have to do around here to get a gun and some ammo in those parts without the damn deep state putting him on a list? I have a second amendment right, dammit, no matter what those communists say!"
He had planned to mix it in with a normal conversation, but that would require Vince to actually have a conversation around here, and he felt his thin mask slipping already. He just hoped he had mixed in all the right buzz-words.
The Independence Inn was a sort of divey locals type bar where the good ol’ boys hang out. Now, it’s mostly just deep-rooted townies stuck in their ways who patronize the place… But, really as long as no one makes too much of a ruckus doing ungodly things, well, fine… just… don’t expect the lads here to be as sweet as Grammy Edith.
The air is hazy with Marlboro smoke and the menu is mostly standards domestic beers. Certainly no fancy cocktails. Or Witches…
Several heads turn to the boisterous newcomer, not many seem shocked by his claim.
The bar tender, basically a caricature of Andy Griffith at 85, is a slim man with handsome face. Slightly ruddy chin, cheeks, and nose. Respectable brow. Neatly combed and waxed silver waves. Smiling eyes and a wide mouth. And, with both a prominent nose and ears that make him pretty distinct.
His brows knit together and he susses out the claim, suspected there’s a little mockery. That’s fair… some of his clients were scared of change.
He nods the shaggy haired young guy over to the bar and everyone else, mostly, fucks off.
“Welcome in, sonny.” The old man had given him a thorough once-over on the approach, and didn’t seem to bothered.
“Someone hasslin’ you out there? Not that Sally… or that uh… band of brothers?”
This doesn’t seem like a guy who would stop by The Crow Bar, but, he also didn’t seem like he’s interested in them shuttin’ down. Probably doesn’t visit the (s)hell Station neither.
“Drink?” He continues organizing and cleaning while the bar is quiet.
Was he… stalling?
The air is hazy with Marlboro smoke and the menu is mostly standards domestic beers. Certainly no fancy cocktails. Or Witches…
Several heads turn to the boisterous newcomer, not many seem shocked by his claim.
The bar tender, basically a caricature of Andy Griffith at 85, is a slim man with handsome face. Slightly ruddy chin, cheeks, and nose. Respectable brow. Neatly combed and waxed silver waves. Smiling eyes and a wide mouth. And, with both a prominent nose and ears that make him pretty distinct.
His brows knit together and he susses out the claim, suspected there’s a little mockery. That’s fair… some of his clients were scared of change.
He nods the shaggy haired young guy over to the bar and everyone else, mostly, fucks off.
“Welcome in, sonny.” The old man had given him a thorough once-over on the approach, and didn’t seem to bothered.
“Someone hasslin’ you out there? Not that Sally… or that uh… band of brothers?”
This doesn’t seem like a guy who would stop by The Crow Bar, but, he also didn’t seem like he’s interested in them shuttin’ down. Probably doesn’t visit the (s)hell Station neither.
“Drink?” He continues organizing and cleaning while the bar is quiet.
Was he… stalling?
The lack of fancy cocktails suited Vince, he could hardly remember what went into a Screwdriver or a Cuba Libre.
Still, he was a city boy, and he didn't feel like the rurals would like him very much once he dropped the act. And that feeling was likely to be mutual.
He titled his head as no on seemed to react to him. His plan expected him to either drown in guns or be involved in fistfights by now. Shrugging, he approached the barkeep.
"I just want to be stand my ground when the undoc… immig… illegal immigrants swarm the border. Look, I'm an american, I have a right to have at least three guns on my personall the time, and if a little, tiny, vehicular manslaughter should take that right away from me, the founding fathers would've said so in the constitution. It wasn't my fault the damn freedom hating protesters blocked the street…"
Yeah, Vince probably had put it on too thick. He still approached the bar and sat down, as he did his best to look like an asshole.
"Drink." he decided. "I'll have…" he looked down the menu. "…something wet, with alcohol in it."
Still, he was a city boy, and he didn't feel like the rurals would like him very much once he dropped the act. And that feeling was likely to be mutual.
He titled his head as no on seemed to react to him. His plan expected him to either drown in guns or be involved in fistfights by now. Shrugging, he approached the barkeep.
"I just want to be stand my ground when the undoc… immig… illegal immigrants swarm the border. Look, I'm an american, I have a right to have at least three guns on my personall the time, and if a little, tiny, vehicular manslaughter should take that right away from me, the founding fathers would've said so in the constitution. It wasn't my fault the damn freedom hating protesters blocked the street…"
Yeah, Vince probably had put it on too thick. He still approached the bar and sat down, as he did his best to look like an asshole.
"Drink." he decided. "I'll have…" he looked down the menu. "…something wet, with alcohol in it."
Andy’s amused chuckle can be heard, even with his back turned. He nods, setting a small glass in front of Vince. A quiet and practiced pour, all the way to the tip top & not a drop over. He puts the shot of whisky in front of Vince.
“Say… you ain’t with that motor cycle club, are ya? Thought maybe you were fresh blood come to try your hand.”
His glance toward the doorway seems less than confident for someone so settled here. Surely they see lots of people come and go…
The usual conversation continues behind them. Several curious patrons practically lookie-loo holes in the back of Vince’s head, shameless. But, no one bothers Andy and his customers.
“Say… you ain’t with that motor cycle club, are ya? Thought maybe you were fresh blood come to try your hand.”
His glance toward the doorway seems less than confident for someone so settled here. Surely they see lots of people come and go…
The usual conversation continues behind them. Several curious patrons practically lookie-loo holes in the back of Vince’s head, shameless. But, no one bothers Andy and his customers.
Vince returned the smile. He gave the whiskey a quick sniff, before thorwing it down his cake hole.
That pour was as well practiced as Andy's.
As he put down the glas, he looked at Andy again. Then he shook his head.
"If I was in a MC, I wouldn't hassle strangers for guns." he reassured. "I ride alone. Well, I would, if I had a motorcycle."
Vince gave the other customers a side-look, but he didn't say anything yet. So far, things seemed to be going allright.
That pour was as well practiced as Andy's.
As he put down the glas, he looked at Andy again. Then he shook his head.
"If I was in a MC, I wouldn't hassle strangers for guns." he reassured. "I ride alone. Well, I would, if I had a motorcycle."
Vince gave the other customers a side-look, but he didn't say anything yet. So far, things seemed to be going allright.
Andy keeps busy by tidying as he goes. Easier to just keep moving. He nods to Vince’s more accurate representation on the availability of arms in a motorcycle club. Fair.
“Well, just a warning then… Be watchin’ out for a rowdy bunch that’s rolled through a time’r two. They got all them kinda vague symbols on their bikes and jackets. He nods at Vince’s shirt, “Looks kinda like that, but, uh… scarier. They been causing a ruckus in other towns. Word of upsets spread fast, people try to take care.” He left off the ‘If you know what I mean…’
“Ain’t too many of ‘em, honestly. But, I don’t advise any one man to go pokin’ a bear… They got guns & bikes. Be a right shame if they try to come in here.”
Andy’s serious, but he’s also one man with a rifle. Hopefully his clientele were as eager to protect the place from a gang of ignorant neo-nazis as he was.
He’s not much for the strange and powerful women who have been here as long as the town; but only cause he didn’t want to be on their bad side… Now, hateful gangs like this one… well, he liked to think he’d at least stand up and say something instead of let them just have all his hard work for free.
As if summoned via magic the sound of several motorcycles pulling into the lot can be heard. Andy tensed, gave Vince a serious look, and continued to keep himself occupied. Better to show indifference to them than fear seems to be Andy’s play.
A challenge to Vince’s boisterous entrance came shortly after. Several masculine shapes all in black leather jackets and cuffed jeans with heavy, but clean, motorcycle boots come inside in an orderly line and spread out behind a slightly shorter central figure.
Gloved hands remove the helmet to reveal a sharp jaw, a clean shaven face, analyzing eyes. A thin sharp lip twitches, as if something felt off from their usual assessment.
“Oh, Good evening Mr Griffith… I’m pleased to find you here.” The voice was calm, cool, polite in an obnoxious and meaningless way. As if the politeness helps the rest go down easier.
“Well, just a warning then… Be watchin’ out for a rowdy bunch that’s rolled through a time’r two. They got all them kinda vague symbols on their bikes and jackets. He nods at Vince’s shirt, “Looks kinda like that, but, uh… scarier. They been causing a ruckus in other towns. Word of upsets spread fast, people try to take care.” He left off the ‘If you know what I mean…’
“Ain’t too many of ‘em, honestly. But, I don’t advise any one man to go pokin’ a bear… They got guns & bikes. Be a right shame if they try to come in here.”
Andy’s serious, but he’s also one man with a rifle. Hopefully his clientele were as eager to protect the place from a gang of ignorant neo-nazis as he was.
He’s not much for the strange and powerful women who have been here as long as the town; but only cause he didn’t want to be on their bad side… Now, hateful gangs like this one… well, he liked to think he’d at least stand up and say something instead of let them just have all his hard work for free.
As if summoned via magic the sound of several motorcycles pulling into the lot can be heard. Andy tensed, gave Vince a serious look, and continued to keep himself occupied. Better to show indifference to them than fear seems to be Andy’s play.
A challenge to Vince’s boisterous entrance came shortly after. Several masculine shapes all in black leather jackets and cuffed jeans with heavy, but clean, motorcycle boots come inside in an orderly line and spread out behind a slightly shorter central figure.
Gloved hands remove the helmet to reveal a sharp jaw, a clean shaven face, analyzing eyes. A thin sharp lip twitches, as if something felt off from their usual assessment.
“Oh, Good evening Mr Griffith… I’m pleased to find you here.” The voice was calm, cool, polite in an obnoxious and meaningless way. As if the politeness helps the rest go down easier.
So, watch out for people who wear skulls. That was advice that applied since the age of sail.
Vince had the sneaking suspicion that he didn't entirely caught the barkeep's drift.
"I'm a bit slow on the uptake, so I don't know what you mean." he admitted. But he liked the sound of guns and bikes. He would like to have guns and bikes, and it sounded like no one would object if he took them from these guys.
Vince's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of bikes.
Well… showtime.
Vince turned to the keep. "The strongest drink you have." he ordered, before adding. "And I mean: the one in the strongest bottle."
He didn't plan on drinking.
There was a rhythm to this. All the world was a stage, and Vince played his part. He leaned his elbows on the counter as he turned towards the bikers, giving them a disinterested, bored look.
"Do you mind? We're in the middle of something." he said.
He had counted half a dozen men, and no visible guns or other weaponry so far - didn't mean no glocks or no knifes, though. Didn't mean things would go easy, even without those.
Vince had the sneaking suspicion that he didn't entirely caught the barkeep's drift.
"I'm a bit slow on the uptake, so I don't know what you mean." he admitted. But he liked the sound of guns and bikes. He would like to have guns and bikes, and it sounded like no one would object if he took them from these guys.
Vince's thoughts were interrupted by the sound of bikes.
Well… showtime.
Vince turned to the keep. "The strongest drink you have." he ordered, before adding. "And I mean: the one in the strongest bottle."
He didn't plan on drinking.
There was a rhythm to this. All the world was a stage, and Vince played his part. He leaned his elbows on the counter as he turned towards the bikers, giving them a disinterested, bored look.
"Do you mind? We're in the middle of something." he said.
He had counted half a dozen men, and no visible guns or other weaponry so far - didn't mean no glocks or no knifes, though. Didn't mean things would go easy, even without those.
It’s honestly so unfortunate that these aren’t pirates. The rest of the gang would have definitely found that funny. It’s possible some of them were sailors at least..!
Grumbling, Andy abandons his tidying work.
“Shame… that's a nice’n, but, I think the artist’ll appreciate the spirit in which it will come to be used.”The older man, with his 60s rifleman cowboy charm offers up a hefty 3L kiln-fired jug at Vince’s request. The damn thing smells like it’s known to hold a real intense brew, Probably Sally Bones’ work.
The several other good ol’ country boy type regulars stand with Vince and Andy now. It’s almost an even match. There’s holsters and at least a knife on every belt for the locals.
A disciplined tone comes from the wide and thin mouth of the sharply-dressed leader, In one hand he holds his shining black motorbike helmet by the “jaw”.
He ignores Vince for just a moment, like any arrogant little fash-trash would.
“Blut und Boden, Herr Griffith. Have you considered my offer?” He steps a little further in toward the center of the room and scoots a chair with the toe of his boot.
“We only think to unite you under our wing, as our brothers. Your home can be free from the cursed Untermensch problem you have thus far failed to handle. Let us help you make your home beautiful and pure again. This small debt can be repaid with your obedience and loyalty.”
(Haha, holy shit I hated looking all of that up. Please tell me if too cheesy , cringe, or uncomfortable.)
Grumbling, Andy abandons his tidying work.
“Shame… that's a nice’n, but, I think the artist’ll appreciate the spirit in which it will come to be used.”The older man, with his 60s rifleman cowboy charm offers up a hefty 3L kiln-fired jug at Vince’s request. The damn thing smells like it’s known to hold a real intense brew, Probably Sally Bones’ work.
The several other good ol’ country boy type regulars stand with Vince and Andy now. It’s almost an even match. There’s holsters and at least a knife on every belt for the locals.
A disciplined tone comes from the wide and thin mouth of the sharply-dressed leader, In one hand he holds his shining black motorbike helmet by the “jaw”.
He ignores Vince for just a moment, like any arrogant little fash-trash would.
“Blut und Boden, Herr Griffith. Have you considered my offer?” He steps a little further in toward the center of the room and scoots a chair with the toe of his boot.
“We only think to unite you under our wing, as our brothers. Your home can be free from the cursed Untermensch problem you have thus far failed to handle. Let us help you make your home beautiful and pure again. This small debt can be repaid with your obedience and loyalty.”
(Haha, holy shit I hated looking all of that up. Please tell me if too cheesy , cringe, or uncomfortable.)
(It is the perfect amount of cheese!)
The good ol' country boys hating on Nazis. Vince didn't expect to see the day. Maybe because the bikers made the tiny mistake of choosing the German flavor of fascism instead of going for one of the american reincarnations.
Vince's leather jacket slid off his shoulders, as he stepped up to face the biker.
After all, he liked that jacket just a bit too much to rip it apart in a fight.
Maybe, just maybe, the other bar patrons would interpret the slogan "No gods, no masters" as something libertarian, and he could remain a master of infiltration
A growl tried to escape his throat, and Vince drowned it out in a sip of his jug. He looked at the Obersturmführer-wannabe as he lowered the jig.
Vince knew enough German to roughly get what the guy had said: Punch me in the face.
And Vince was happy to comply.
"¡No pasarán!" he shouted, as he broke the jug against the side of the guys head.
The good ol' country boys hating on Nazis. Vince didn't expect to see the day. Maybe because the bikers made the tiny mistake of choosing the German flavor of fascism instead of going for one of the american reincarnations.
Vince's leather jacket slid off his shoulders, as he stepped up to face the biker.
After all, he liked that jacket just a bit too much to rip it apart in a fight.
Maybe, just maybe, the other bar patrons would interpret the slogan "No gods, no masters" as something libertarian, and he could remain a master of infiltration
A growl tried to escape his throat, and Vince drowned it out in a sip of his jug. He looked at the Obersturmführer-wannabe as he lowered the jig.
Vince knew enough German to roughly get what the guy had said: Punch me in the face.
And Vince was happy to comply.
"¡No pasarán!" he shouted, as he broke the jug against the side of the guys head.
Nothing like a good ol’ donnybrook! Too bad these guys weren’t here for fun. At least one person with the locals understood Vince and the rest caught the general vibe! In an award-worthy effort almost timed to Vince’s jug assault… The two groups clash!
A splurt of blood and saliva goes flying from the fash-trash leader’s mouth as the hefty pottery jug collides with his face. He practically spins around with the force of contact. Instead, he falters, stumbling sideways and back while trying to right himself. His bell was definitely rung, his eyes watering. Face red and swelling, bloodied, and smelling of alcohol.
Moonshine drips down his jaw.
The one extra guy in their group is rushing toward Vince with a club in hand. He takes an honestly very messy swing. He seems unprepared; like they expected submission.
A splurt of blood and saliva goes flying from the fash-trash leader’s mouth as the hefty pottery jug collides with his face. He practically spins around with the force of contact. Instead, he falters, stumbling sideways and back while trying to right himself. His bell was definitely rung, his eyes watering. Face red and swelling, bloodied, and smelling of alcohol.
Moonshine drips down his jaw.
The one extra guy in their group is rushing toward Vince with a club in hand. He takes an honestly very messy swing. He seems unprepared; like they expected submission.
Vince loved nazis. No matter what he did to them, he never felt bad.
Smashing that jug in someone's face felt like waking up after a long slumber. Vince wanted to follow his bloodlust and go for the leader's throat.
Behead the snake and see if it was still crawling.
Luckily, before he could go in for the finishing blow, a club came his way.
There was way too much wind-up on that punch. Impressive if you wanted to scare someone, bad for actual fighting. Vince leaned to the side, dodging the weapon. Finally finding a good use for his beastlike strength, he grabbed at the wielders neck at the down swing,. Then he added to the momentum already in play, to throw his face down. Down towards the nearby table.
Smashing that jug in someone's face felt like waking up after a long slumber. Vince wanted to follow his bloodlust and go for the leader's throat.
Behead the snake and see if it was still crawling.
Luckily, before he could go in for the finishing blow, a club came his way.
There was way too much wind-up on that punch. Impressive if you wanted to scare someone, bad for actual fighting. Vince leaned to the side, dodging the weapon. Finally finding a good use for his beastlike strength, he grabbed at the wielders neck at the down swing,. Then he added to the momentum already in play, to throw his face down. Down towards the nearby table.
That dude’s melon smacked the table in a real weird way… the kind that makes your throat feel a little funny. He dropped, and then came a voice!
“Turn yer ass around, kid!” Hollers Andy Griffth, bar-grandpa???, who turns to get his rifle from the display above the back counter. He’s giving her a good once-once over, ‘cause you always check… But, folks knew she got well cared for.
His warning should give Vince enough time to see the slender blonde Nazi coming at him again, if a bit unsteadily. He’s spitting blood that has run down to his mouth from a cut on the side of his face. In the back ground, one bootlicker has cut and run off after breaking out of a grapple. The sound of their bike comes loud, disappearing fast in the night.
Andy’s got his rifle trained on the guy Vince bashed into a table… Another goes down with a fight, the locals seem mostly fine. A little battered, but nothing they won’t be proud to deal with.
“Nobody here’s buying inta yer stupid bullshit, you degenerate twats!” Andy didn’t necessarily want to be in trouble with the law, but, he certainly saw enough in his time to know that these ain’t the kinda people you want in yer holler. Not even a toe!
“Turn yer ass around, kid!” Hollers Andy Griffth, bar-grandpa???, who turns to get his rifle from the display above the back counter. He’s giving her a good once-once over, ‘cause you always check… But, folks knew she got well cared for.
His warning should give Vince enough time to see the slender blonde Nazi coming at him again, if a bit unsteadily. He’s spitting blood that has run down to his mouth from a cut on the side of his face. In the back ground, one bootlicker has cut and run off after breaking out of a grapple. The sound of their bike comes loud, disappearing fast in the night.
Andy’s got his rifle trained on the guy Vince bashed into a table… Another goes down with a fight, the locals seem mostly fine. A little battered, but nothing they won’t be proud to deal with.
“Nobody here’s buying inta yer stupid bullshit, you degenerate twats!” Andy didn’t necessarily want to be in trouble with the law, but, he certainly saw enough in his time to know that these ain’t the kinda people you want in yer holler. Not even a toe!
Vince turned around just in time to eat blondie's fist.
He stumbled a step backwards, but found his footing almost instantly. The copper taste on his tongue made him grin madly.
The guy had got in his lucky shot.
Vince's inner beast wanted instant revenge, but Vince kept himself in check. Just this once, fighting like a human had more options than fighting like an animal.
Blocking yet another time, this time with his lower arm instead of his face, Vince let himself be driven back. Then, suddenly his hand moved to the side in a blur, grabbing one of the far too many Marlboros out of a patron's mouth.
Whatever was in that jug had tasted strong, and Vince had high hopes as he threw the still burning cigarette in Blondie's face.
He stumbled a step backwards, but found his footing almost instantly. The copper taste on his tongue made him grin madly.
The guy had got in his lucky shot.
Vince's inner beast wanted instant revenge, but Vince kept himself in check. Just this once, fighting like a human had more options than fighting like an animal.
Blocking yet another time, this time with his lower arm instead of his face, Vince let himself be driven back. Then, suddenly his hand moved to the side in a blur, grabbing one of the far too many Marlboros out of a patron's mouth.
Whatever was in that jug had tasted strong, and Vince had high hopes as he threw the still burning cigarette in Blondie's face.
Sally Bones’ Moonshine lit up with an audible, albeit tiny, -whoosh!- right before the cherry of the cigarette grazed Blondie’s cheek. The flame crawled fast, spreading across that pale flesh. It burned his perfect little sideburn while moving up the curve of his face. The pistol in his hand clattered to the wooden floor.
Blondie’s scream is indicative of his pained distress. He flails about, knocking into a table and sending glasses and an ashtray tumbling over. The fire now licks his stiffly coifed hair, setting it ablaze. Even the remainder of his crew back away.
No one to help him, what a shame…
Meanwhile, the locals continue to batter the intruders into submission, another one hits the floor… however his head is probably better-off than table-melon guy.
The last two are still brawling but not looking very well.
Blondie’s scream is indicative of his pained distress. He flails about, knocking into a table and sending glasses and an ashtray tumbling over. The fire now licks his stiffly coifed hair, setting it ablaze. Even the remainder of his crew back away.
No one to help him, what a shame…
Meanwhile, the locals continue to batter the intruders into submission, another one hits the floor… however his head is probably better-off than table-melon guy.
The last two are still brawling but not looking very well.
Usually, Vince felt like he was holding back, fighting in his human form, but just this once, he was really satisfied with the results. The savage side of him was satisfied.
His caveman-brain was just happy about having made a fire.
Maybe blond wasn't even this guy's natural hair color: the way the fire spread, their was a lot product in his hair. Vince leaned down and picked up the pistol again, before turning to the obersturmführer wannabe.
"It is Dresde.n all over again, hm?"
Vince doubted the guy could hear him. Honestly, Vince did him a favor as he trained the gun at him and pulled the trigger a few times for good meassure.
Nothing happened, even as Vince worked the trigger some more.
He wondered why no bullets came out. It took him a while of inspecting the gun to find the saftey - all while he handled the gun mindlessly, pointing it basically everywhere
His caveman-brain was just happy about having made a fire.
Maybe blond wasn't even this guy's natural hair color: the way the fire spread, their was a lot product in his hair. Vince leaned down and picked up the pistol again, before turning to the obersturmführer wannabe.
"It is Dresde.n all over again, hm?"
Vince doubted the guy could hear him. Honestly, Vince did him a favor as he trained the gun at him and pulled the trigger a few times for good meassure.
Nothing happened, even as Vince worked the trigger some more.
He wondered why no bullets came out. It took him a while of inspecting the gun to find the saftey - all while he handled the gun mindlessly, pointing it basically everywhere
Blondie’s whimpering something; unimportant and insensitive probably. He hadn’t even heard the safetied click of his own handgun. Consumed completely by pain, the bare minimum of what he deserved, he dropped to his knees while wailing and trying to get his jacket off before it- ohhh well that’s on fire now.
Shame.
Andy comes up beside Vince while maintaining his look-out job. “Dang kid, watch that shit. Don’t shootcher damn self.” He doesn’t seem extremely sure if Vince finding the safety was for the best or not.
A tooth went flying and clattered to the floor near Vince’s left foot. The last guy did beg, but he also got stabbed in the shoulder, so, that redirected his attention from his pointless request. Despite the terrible gun safety, Vince and the boys had done a pretty solid job, he wasn’t too fussed.
Shame.
Andy comes up beside Vince while maintaining his look-out job. “Dang kid, watch that shit. Don’t shootcher damn self.” He doesn’t seem extremely sure if Vince finding the safety was for the best or not.
A tooth went flying and clattered to the floor near Vince’s left foot. The last guy did beg, but he also got stabbed in the shoulder, so, that redirected his attention from his pointless request. Despite the terrible gun safety, Vince and the boys had done a pretty solid job, he wasn’t too fussed.
Vince put the handgun into the seams of his jeans. He would just find some sort of youtube tutorial for it later on and maybe put some holes into his can collection.
Then, just as he put it away, he pulled the gun out again, set the saftey to "safe" and then the gun went into his jeans again. Yeah, this made a very bad idea an idea, that was slightly less bad.
Suddenly Vince had a thought: how much bullets did actually go into a pistol like this? It wasn't a revolver, so more than six… Vince had some experience with people shooting at him, and he had played some video games, so his guess was somewhere between 7 and 20.
That wouldn't even start to put a dent in his can collection, even if he actually hit every shot.
"Hey, do you think Hauptman Dietrich here carries spare ammo?" Vince wondered out loud. His eyes returned to the guy with the burning jacket.
The fire answered his question, as it found the pocket with the bullets, and a second later, ignited them. Shots rang out in the bar.
For a second Vince stood there, then he remembered to do the more human thing and dive for cover behind the bar, pulling the keep to the ground if he hadn't thought of ducking already.
Then, just as he put it away, he pulled the gun out again, set the saftey to "safe" and then the gun went into his jeans again. Yeah, this made a very bad idea an idea, that was slightly less bad.
Suddenly Vince had a thought: how much bullets did actually go into a pistol like this? It wasn't a revolver, so more than six… Vince had some experience with people shooting at him, and he had played some video games, so his guess was somewhere between 7 and 20.
That wouldn't even start to put a dent in his can collection, even if he actually hit every shot.
"Hey, do you think Hauptman Dietrich here carries spare ammo?" Vince wondered out loud. His eyes returned to the guy with the burning jacket.
The fire answered his question, as it found the pocket with the bullets, and a second later, ignited them. Shots rang out in the bar.
For a second Vince stood there, then he remembered to do the more human thing and dive for cover behind the bar, pulling the keep to the ground if he hadn't thought of ducking already.
“Shit fire, Damnit -ass!!!” Old man Andy curls up, covering his head as Vince pulls him down to cover. He probably hadn’t had this much excitement in years despite the bar’s rather surly reputation. It’s easier just to let people keep thinking you’re real scary. For the most part.
A bullet ricochets off something and into the guy who got stabbed in the shoulder… It’s his other shoulder. What a shitty night. Two locals continue to punch him in the face. A bit over kill; for anyone else really.
It’s not long after shots ring out that Sheriff Harker arrives. He shouts from outside, “Hey..! Y’all good? I see we’re having a bit of a barbecue and uhhhh some jiffy pop got a bit out of hand?” They can’t see his horrified, impressed, and totally disgusted face as he tries to avoid getting shot after noticing the roasty toasty human.
A bullet ricochets off something and into the guy who got stabbed in the shoulder… It’s his other shoulder. What a shitty night. Two locals continue to punch him in the face. A bit over kill; for anyone else really.
It’s not long after shots ring out that Sheriff Harker arrives. He shouts from outside, “Hey..! Y’all good? I see we’re having a bit of a barbecue and uhhhh some jiffy pop got a bit out of hand?” They can’t see his horrified, impressed, and totally disgusted face as he tries to avoid getting shot after noticing the roasty toasty human.
Without a barrel, the bullets could go anywhere. Vince assumed that some went into the owner of the poor jacket, as he just was a close target, and every bullet choosing roughly that 180° angle would go in, and in the worst case, through him.
Vince wouldn't hold his breath for that guys survival. Shoulder-man had a chance, Vince wasn't even sure about face-planter, but their great leader? If he had been a human, he probably was deader than disco by now.
As he heard the voice, Vince lifted his head once more. He wasn't that afraid of bullets: it basically took a head-shot to take out a werewolf, and his brain wasn't a very large target.
Then he saw the Sheriff-car from the window.
He doubted that the Sheriff would swallow his explanation: that the word "Untermenschen" and "purify" in the same sentence basically was already violence, and that Vince basically acted in defense of self and others when he hit Hitler 2.0 first.
"You know what, that is my cue to leave." Vince decided. He had a gun and some bullets, he was sure it was easy to come by even more of those.
It was a shame, roasted human smelled delicious.
Okay, once he had that thought he was sure he should've left five minutes ago.
"Do you have a back door?" he hoped.
Vince wouldn't hold his breath for that guys survival. Shoulder-man had a chance, Vince wasn't even sure about face-planter, but their great leader? If he had been a human, he probably was deader than disco by now.
As he heard the voice, Vince lifted his head once more. He wasn't that afraid of bullets: it basically took a head-shot to take out a werewolf, and his brain wasn't a very large target.
Then he saw the Sheriff-car from the window.
He doubted that the Sheriff would swallow his explanation: that the word "Untermenschen" and "purify" in the same sentence basically was already violence, and that Vince basically acted in defense of self and others when he hit Hitler 2.0 first.
"You know what, that is my cue to leave." Vince decided. He had a gun and some bullets, he was sure it was easy to come by even more of those.
It was a shame, roasted human smelled delicious.
Okay, once he had that thought he was sure he should've left five minutes ago.
"Do you have a back door?" he hoped.
Andy and the gang usher Vince out the back through the hall the leads to the office and door to the alley.
“Thanks young buck. If you wanna come around later and collect them bikes… they’re all yours. If I find keys, I’ll hold onto them for ya.”
He pats Vince on the back. “Come by fer a few rounds any time. We owe you.” And they all head the opposite direction of Vince toward the front to see Sheriff Harker. Vince might hear the Sheriff saying “Naw, Mack. Thanks. I got it. Just uh… probably some clean up. Andy’s fine.”
“Thanks young buck. If you wanna come around later and collect them bikes… they’re all yours. If I find keys, I’ll hold onto them for ya.”
He pats Vince on the back. “Come by fer a few rounds any time. We owe you.” And they all head the opposite direction of Vince toward the front to see Sheriff Harker. Vince might hear the Sheriff saying “Naw, Mack. Thanks. I got it. Just uh… probably some clean up. Andy’s fine.”
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