A fan fiction by Matthew Seeger

Chapter One
Birdington's Ripe for Plucking (Part one)

It was quiet out. The sun had just set and the Zapflies were chirping and buzzing about, leaving an electric trail where they flew. A group of Outlaw Shooters and two Cutters "herded" me towards town.

"The town of Birdington," said Chains, so named for the chains around his arm. "This here's where we start looting."

Chains pointed to a small house with a sign that said, "If you were here, you'd be home." Quaint, but unfortunately, quaintness is a concept lost on the Outlaw scum.

My brow was sweating. I didn't want to do this, but unfortunately if I didn't, I knew I would get worse back at the hideout. I shuddered at the memory of what Bailey did to the last traitor.

Chains motioned to a Cutter and three Shooters to go around back of the quaint little home.

"You," he looked at me and squinted, "stay here with us until Fred and the others get back."

"My name is not 'You,'" I said, trying to sound brave. "It's Pugsley."

"Yer name is Mud unless Boss says otherwise," he snapped at me. "Now shaddap and hide. Someone might see you."

I scowled, but did what I was told. "Boss" wanted complete and total compliance, and I was to do as Chains said. Or else.

We sat and waited behind a pile of wet, rotting lumber for nearly ten minutes. There was some clanging, followed by some "shh!"-ing at about the six-minute mark, but fortunately none of the lights in the home turned on. Frank and the three Shooters ran out with a handful of jewelry.

Chains looked disappointed. "This is all ya got?" He asked.

Frank looked down at his toes and kicked some dirt around shamefully. "This is all the guy had."

"Ya better hope to get a good haul in the next house." Chains threatened Frank with the barrel of his gun.

"I…I will! I promise!" Frank stammered.

"Good," he said. "Let's move out. We have a long night ahead of us."

Three other houses went by in that same fashion. Then Chains decided to let me go into the fifth house.

I hated the thought of looting some poor sap's home.

"I'd really rather not…" I said.

"Fine," Chains said. "I'll just tell boss that you didn't pull your own weight tonight, and we can just…"

"No, no!" I said quickly, "I'll…I'll go. Who do you want me to take?"

"Barry, Billy-Bob," he motioned for two Shooters. "Get in there with 'im."

"Yew got it, boss." Said Barry.

"Aw, come on. You're sending me in with Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dumber? That's bull—"

"Move it!" Yelled Chains.

(V)

Barry led Billy-Bob and I into the home, an unwise decision since the first thing he did when he jacked the door open was stub his toe on the doorstop and yelp in pain.

I put my hand over his mouth to prevent further noise. But it seemed like Barry was prone to it, because he then bumped straight into the kitchen counter and knocked the leg out of a table with a frantic swipe of his foot.

Clang, Bang, Whump and Slam; it seemed like watching dominos. Pans fell to the floor with a defining Clang, almost as if they were swimmers diving into an invisible pool.

The table smashed to the floor, unbalanced on its two remaining legs. It broke in three places. Barry was still flailing in fright like an idiot, smashing into the counter and knocking it over. Who makes this fragile crap anyway! The counter crashed to the floor with a loud WHUMP.

The last musical note in this catastrophic symphony was of all the pots, pans and silverware in the fallen side of the counter crashing to the floor.

Wonderfully played. Stupid, STUPID Barry. I knew this was a bad idea. They should have sent me in with Jib. Jib's not…you know…stupid.

A light upstairs flicked on. Perfect. I could hear a Clakker's voice from up there. That grainy, annoying, squawking voice that made my skin crawl.

"Brrukaw! What th' hell's goin' awn down thar!" The Clakker's big feet thumped down the stairway.

Each thump sounded like a heartbeat coming from my chest. I didn't need this! I didn't want to get caught! I'm not a felon, I'm a hostage! A puppet in Bailey's bigger game! Oh, Odd. I can't get caught red-handed! I need to leave before…

Flash.

A bright light came from what I assumed to be a camera. The click and whirr of mechanical gears confirmed this.

"Ha! I gotchya, ya filthy thief! Now ev'ryone's gonna know who's been a-plunderin' our town," The Clakker said deviously.

I moved back towards the door. The Clakker shook nervously and stepped back; assuming that I might try something funny, being an Outlaw and all. My eyes were as wide as saucers from the shock.

I was a felon, and now the Clakkerz had a face to go with their perp. I would soon be on all of the Wanted posters. "Look out fer this Outlaw: a wussy and a thief!" They would read.

Not only did I not want to be a thief, but I was now a wanted Outlaw. Bounty hunters would be after me left and right.

Should I attack the Clakker? No, I'm in enough trouble as it is. I did what I thought would be the best option.

I backed out of the house and ran.