The sound of a pounding shoe echoed throughout the dark reaches of an underground store room where a small wooden table was set in the dim light of a single hanging bulb. Three men sat around this table in wooden chairs creaking nervously under their weight. Each man was powerful in his own way. One had money, another power, and the third had connections. Individually they were each impressive men. Together, they were a bickering mass of incompetence.
"We need to talk about action, here!" The owner of the shoe was shouting over his own pounding. He'd been using the shoe as a makeshift gavel. He was Lyle Clemente, supposedly the most powerful man in the entire Southern Shores district. He'd been smacking his shoe on the rickety table for nearly an hour.
"Well, what do you propose we do, then? March right on over to them and throw off our shoes like you?" A harsh, yet eloquent reply from Angelo Barton, a rising politician seated to his left. He'd been listening in growing aggravation to the pounding noise for nearly an hour.
"Guys, guys: why do we have to argue about this? I hate it when we argue about things."
"Shut up, Sammy." Lyle and Angelo both said at once, ignoring their companion. Samuel Dalton was used to this, though. He'd spent years tuning out angry customers, angry employees, and an even angrier than the rest wife. Tuning out some lousy pounding shoe for less than an hour was nothing to him. He spread his fingers over the table and drummed them one after another as he separated himself from the bickering around him.
"Now, listen, Clemente: I want you to send one of your boys over to that building where those... things are, a-and... Well, just get rid of them." Angelo said.
"Nah, they're too stupid to do it alone. Those fuckers couldn't find their thumbs if they didn't need 'em for their asses." Came Lyle's disgusted reply. The mob boss lit a cigar before continuing, "And learn to say 'Kill' and 'Die' and 'Fuck' already, you sound like a damned cartoon show."
Angelo ignored this comment and pressed the issue. "Well, isn't there somebody who can get rid of them? There's a whole building full of creatures just a few blocks down, and we know there's more of them throughout the city-- don't you know anybody who's competent enough to get rid of them? You sure had no problem getting rid of those four police officers who w-"
"Those cops are, ay: none of you business, Barton." Lyle interrupted, "And bee: They was people. Fragile little people what bleeds all over the place after stepping on a toothpick. That said, I might know a guy or two."
The other two men smiled and leaned in expectantly. Between them, Lyle was thumbing through his communicator for contacts. He listed off the reason why they couldn't be used as he passed each one.
"Dead. Dead. Prison. Out of Town. Layin' low. Dead. Layin' low. Dead. Dead. Annoying. Stupid. Dead... and that just leaves... Oh, no. No, no, no."
"What's wrong Lyle? You can tell us, buddy. We're all pals here, remember?" Sammy was getting nervous. Angelo just crossed his arms and made a smug-sounding noise.
Lyle sighed and sampled his cigar. Puffs of thick smoke curled in the dim light cast upon his balding brow. "Do you guys remember this guy I had working for me a few years back?" He began, "Tall guy, dark hair. He always had something to say about everything."
"You don't mean-" Angelo started.
"Alex F-f-f-foster?" Sammy concluded.
"The same." Lyle admitted.
All three mean groaned.
"We need to talk about action, here!" The owner of the shoe was shouting over his own pounding. He'd been using the shoe as a makeshift gavel. He was Lyle Clemente, supposedly the most powerful man in the entire Southern Shores district. He'd been smacking his shoe on the rickety table for nearly an hour.
"Well, what do you propose we do, then? March right on over to them and throw off our shoes like you?" A harsh, yet eloquent reply from Angelo Barton, a rising politician seated to his left. He'd been listening in growing aggravation to the pounding noise for nearly an hour.
"Guys, guys: why do we have to argue about this? I hate it when we argue about things."
"Shut up, Sammy." Lyle and Angelo both said at once, ignoring their companion. Samuel Dalton was used to this, though. He'd spent years tuning out angry customers, angry employees, and an even angrier than the rest wife. Tuning out some lousy pounding shoe for less than an hour was nothing to him. He spread his fingers over the table and drummed them one after another as he separated himself from the bickering around him.
"Now, listen, Clemente: I want you to send one of your boys over to that building where those... things are, a-and... Well, just get rid of them." Angelo said.
"Nah, they're too stupid to do it alone. Those fuckers couldn't find their thumbs if they didn't need 'em for their asses." Came Lyle's disgusted reply. The mob boss lit a cigar before continuing, "And learn to say 'Kill' and 'Die' and 'Fuck' already, you sound like a damned cartoon show."
Angelo ignored this comment and pressed the issue. "Well, isn't there somebody who can get rid of them? There's a whole building full of creatures just a few blocks down, and we know there's more of them throughout the city-- don't you know anybody who's competent enough to get rid of them? You sure had no problem getting rid of those four police officers who w-"
"Those cops are, ay: none of you business, Barton." Lyle interrupted, "And bee: They was people. Fragile little people what bleeds all over the place after stepping on a toothpick. That said, I might know a guy or two."
The other two men smiled and leaned in expectantly. Between them, Lyle was thumbing through his communicator for contacts. He listed off the reason why they couldn't be used as he passed each one.
"Dead. Dead. Prison. Out of Town. Layin' low. Dead. Layin' low. Dead. Dead. Annoying. Stupid. Dead... and that just leaves... Oh, no. No, no, no."
"What's wrong Lyle? You can tell us, buddy. We're all pals here, remember?" Sammy was getting nervous. Angelo just crossed his arms and made a smug-sounding noise.
Lyle sighed and sampled his cigar. Puffs of thick smoke curled in the dim light cast upon his balding brow. "Do you guys remember this guy I had working for me a few years back?" He began, "Tall guy, dark hair. He always had something to say about everything."
"You don't mean-" Angelo started.
"Alex F-f-f-foster?" Sammy concluded.
"The same." Lyle admitted.
All three mean groaned.
