1. Ricochet: Sins from the Past
A man in a dusty brown leather jacket walks slowly into an old garage located on a lonely airfield. In his hand is a pistol—possibly a revolver—and he's holding it very tightly, with a slender finger on the trigger. His shoulders are taut as he creeps along hunched over, indicating that he's either nervous or just being extremely careful. Most likely both. He continues to step slowly though as he proceeds further in.
Not too far from him stands a man wearing a bulky pair of black goggles, a faded pair of thick, brown leather gloves and a fitted hat that's cocked to the side. He's hunched over as well, but he's far from nervous. He's tinkering with something actually, as evidenced by the two dozen or so sparks scattering about. Due to the noise from the tool he's using, he fails to notice the individual inching closer to him.
Now that he's finally within reach, the man raises his gun and shoves it into the back of the other man's neck, cocking the hammer.
"So… this is where you've been hiding. Nice place you got here. A little too rustic for my tastes though," The Dusty Jacket Man says with a Southern drawl. "Tch, can't believe it took me so long to find you………Slinger."
"Slinger?" The Man in the Fitted Hat shivers, but not enough to be noticed. "I don't know who that is. You have me quite mistaken, sir."
"Don't play around, son. I know it's you. I can tell by the smell," The Dusty Jacket Man sniffs then feigns a sneeze. "Yup. It's you alright. After all these years of relentlessly searching—far and wide might I add—you're finally in my grasp. Don't think I'm gonna let you go so easily."
"Sir… I truly do believe you have me mista—" The Man in the Fitted Hat starts, before being cut off.
"Boy! I advise you to shut your fat lips and put those busy little hands of yours up. Very slowly."
The Man in the Fitted Hat sighs and reluctantly follows the orders given. He is less than thrilled with being disturbed, but much more concerned with the danger facing him. Highly aware of his odds at the moment, he quells the thought of disarming the stranger.
"Um… you wanna tell me why you picked today of all days to stick me up? Can't you see I'm busy, sir?"
The Dusty Jacket Man pushes the gun against his neck harder.
"Frankly, son, I don't give a damn what you're up to right now. We have unfinished business."
"Well, it's quite obvious you don't, or you wouldn't have disturbed me in the first place, but what do you mean by ‘unfinished business’?"
The Dusty Jacket Man snorts, then spits a thick wad of brown phlegm on the floor. "Well, if you must know, I'm here for blood."
"Blood?" The Man in the Fitted Hat gulps softly, trying to hide his shock. "Do you need a transfusion or something? Because I don't deal in those. I'm a engineer, not a phlebotomist."
"Once again, I'm advising you to shut those lips of yours and not press your luck, you diminutive nigger. You can't fast-talk your way out of this one."
Incensed, but trying to remain in a rational state of mind, The Man in the Fitted Hat replies, "Okay, if it's not too much to ask, can you please not use the n-word? After all, the year is 3723, not 1665."
"I don't give a fuck what year it is, boy!" The Dusty Jacket Man shouts, baring his teeth in rage. They're all yellow and brown from what has most likely been years and years of coffee and cigarettes as well as scarcely picking up a toothbrush. His gums are also pretty gnarly looking. Luckily for The Man in the Fitted Hat, he can't see this sterling representation of horrible dental hygiene. "Ten years ago, you killed my daughter, now I'm here for payback!"
The Man in the Fitted Hat gulps again, but very loudly this time. "Payback!? Who in the fuck do you have me confused with? I don't know your daughter or you! Matter of fact, I don't even recognize your voice!"
"Well that's quite a shame then, son, because I certainly know and recognize you—— Julius Maxwell!"
The Man in the Fitted Hat almost faints. Nobody has said his name in years, especially not with such overwhelming vitriol. The seething and disdain are permeating the atmosphere, blanketing the room with loathing. It's been ten mostly lonesome years to himself here in Lowbrow, just building machines and devices, with nary a soul to give him trouble. The only visitors he would get came from Sewanee Valley, a small town about ten miles away. But now? Well now it appears his grace period is over and the chickens have come home to roost.
And when you're someone like Julius, that's a lot of fucking chickens.
"Alright, I give up. You got me. I am Julius Maxwell. Still, I don't know who you are. Mind giving me a refresher?"
"The name's Cheever, Philip Cheever. Perhaps that name rings a bell in that dirty mind of yours?"
Julius feels his chest tightening as his skin runs flush, filling his mind with dread. "Wait, Philip Cheever? As in, former Vice President Cheever!?"
Philip laughs. "So that memory of yours has returned. Good. I figured my name would do the trick. Nobody ever forgets that."
Julius snickers, "Well, you were one tough SOB while in office. Always felt more like you were running things instead of President Hollinshead. It was very easy to get those roles confused."
"Hahahaha! The POTUS is but a mere figurehead, son," Philip takes a moment to clear his throat and spit out another glob of phlegm. Julius snarls under his breath, irritated that this man has spit on the floor of his workshop twice. "That is neither here nor there however, so don't you concern yourself with such."
"With all due respect, Mr. Cheever, I'm a tax-paying citizen. I think I've earned the right to question how our government works."
Philip tenses up from frustration. It's clear Julius is trying to change the subject, but he's not having it.
"Look, boy, I'm not here to discuss the ins and outs of politics with you, I'm here about my daughter September and your role in her murder. I'm certain you remember that as well as her. You two couldn't keep your hands off of each other back then. It was disgusting."
"Oh yeah… I remember September… very well actually," Julius smiles and briefly closes his eyes to reminisce before he continues. "but I didn't kill her. I swear on a stack of King Jameses. That's not what happened at all."
"Really now? I have half a mind to believe you," Philip removes his gun from the back of Julius's neck, but doesn't lower it. "Now turn around, but keep your hands up and move slowly. Any sudden action and I'll blow a third eye socket directly into that grapefruit you call a head. It'll resemble a sinkhole when I'm through with you."
Although loth to do so, Julius follows the orders given, but not before pressing a tiny button in the palm of his left glove using his ring finger.
"Look, Mr. Cheever," Julius starts, staring him square in the eye with those, big and dark brown puppy dog eyes of his. "this is all just a big misunderstanding. I mean, if you really think about it, what did I have to gain from her death? Huh? Just answer me that."
"Son, there are a plethora of things you could've gained from killing my precious cupcake, but I'll just go with value, notoriety and the biggest one of all: moolah. All three are prime for someone like you."
"Well, I already had value and notoriety, so you can scratch those off the list. I also didn't need any money back then, so that's another moot point. There's really nothing you can pin on me to justify this accusation."
"That's bullshit, boy!" Philip screams in discomfort. His seething has grown to astronomical levels and he's struggling to keep a lid on it. "I wouldn't put it past you to shit in the collection plate on Easter Sunday. You did run with The Crackshots after all."
"The Crackshots………," Jesus, that's really taking Julius back. That team was everything to him. Like family to be honest, so you can imagine how pissed he is that Philip has brought them up in the same sentence as taking a shit in the middle of church service. "Hey! I'm not gonna let you blaspheme the good name of my old squad. We may have been involved in some things back then, but at least we weren't like them dumbfuck Goodwater boys."
Philip grunts, "In my book, you two are one and the same. Nothing but the dregs of society looking for the wealthiest of clients so that y'all can have what you feel is a legitimate reason to do the lowest, grimiest, most tasteless shit. It's sickening."
"Funny, we weren't too sickening when you hired us all those years ago," Julius awkwardly whistles while maneuvering his eyes around like he's trying to read the room.
"I assure you, son, that I was in no way fond of you all back then. No respect whatsoever. Quite pointedly, you fools were only a means to an end. If you need a dirty job done, you call dirty people. No more, no less."
Of course, Philip was telling no lies and Julius knew as much. He would never doubt him anyway. Their past interaction had been strictly business, especially since The Crackshots were guns-for-hire as well as "treasure hunters". That latter part is exactly why he's caught up in this mess in the first place, staring down the barrel of a gun.
And just like a bullet (or rather, a barrage of bullets), everything is starting to hit him, sparking his memory. The events of ten years ago now seem more like yesterday…
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