mordicai caeli (mordicai) wrote,
mordicai caeli
mordicai

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part one.

Cowboy? he thought, catches a quicksilver glance of himself in a shop window, draped in his duster like a dinner table wearing grandmother's tablecloth. Audibly, he scoffed out "What?" while trying to fumble discreetly in his pockets to get ahold of his slugthrower again.

"Comon Cowboy, stop screwing around & quit it with the fucking cackle, you're giving me the willies." Shifting his cone of vision, Cowboy? Gideon? turned to look at the speaker. The greensoup colour of the speakers' jacket was a point toward them being associates; the identical combat boots were another.

"Uh..." he stammered out. Great. Turns out I'm the monosyllabic wonder. At least i seem to be Cowboy, too. Lookat that, I'm a regular detective. Dropping his hand away from the pistol grip of the automag, Cowboy straightened his shoulders. "Right. I'll...," he caught himself on the amensiac tightrope, faking left. "I'll follow you, man."

"Alright, Cowboy, you're the man. Lets make like Elvis & rock." He began to lope away, like a young wolf, with a cocksure swagger that set Cowboy's teeth on edge. Cowboy followed along & noticed the guy, he was maybe 25-26, & he kept his eyes moving. Professional, at least. Or, well. Professional if you are in a bussiness where people might shoot at you, & you might try to shoot back at them. The greasy mop of hair atop of the other guy's head shone a slick black in the sulfur of the street lights, once they made the asphalt scene proper like.

Cowboy gave a jump, startled suddenly by a buzzing in his pocket. Cellular call, on the alphabet soup channel. This know-nothing schtick was getting old, quick. As awareness of the vibration dawned on him, Cowboy noticed the other guy reaching for his pocket, too. "Goddam Boss-man. Loves his fucking toys. Pick up already, Cowboy. Its your command, & Knickerbocker & BoyToy are already at the fucking tarot joint."
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