Autumn In Ganymede, Chapter Four: Let's Make A Deal
(I'm so sorry I haven't updated in months... I finally devoted myself to write again... be nice and review. If I get reviews then I write more...)
(Music: "You Make Me Cool")
"What the hell is your problem, kid?" Jet Black angrily spat at the morose Spike. "You know you can't back up that payment! You're just street trash! Why'd you bid at the last second, anyway? Are you even listening to me??" Jet paused to catch his breath. Spike tossed his cigarette into the water and watched the soggy ashes float on the murky surface. Spike resginedly repeated his excuse. "It was an accident. A mistake. I told you already. I wasn't trying to outbid you." Jet would have none of it. Just as he was about to launch into another line of criticism and interogation, Spike interjected, "What is it about that old fishing ship, anyway?"
Jet took a deep breath, and joined Spike at gazing into the water sloshing around the docks. "It has... certain sentimental connections for me, okay?" Spike nodded, groping through his jacket for the slim packet of cigarettes he seeked. "Whatever, Jet." Jet looked up, staring the lean young man in the face. He spoke slowly and deliberately. "You need to let me buy that ship. Do you understand? I will give you the forty five thousand you undoubtedly don't have to pay the city for that ship. Then," Jet paused to make sure his meaning was understood, "you owe me the balance, the five thousand woolongs that I wouldn't have had to pay if it wasn't for your 'mistake'." Jet leaned back on a wooden post and crossed his arms assertively.
Spike's eyes bulged in surprise for a moment, and then he realized the jam he was in. He sighed deeply, realizing that nothing had changed. He was always "wanted" for something, whether it be wanted by the police for unlawful Syndicate actvity, wanted by the Synidcate for betrayal, or wanted by an ex-cop for an insignificant wave of the hand worth 45,000 woolongs. Finally giving up on the unfruitful search for his cigarettes, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and closed his eyes. Why me? he thought. First Julia, then the escape, and now this. Five-thousand woolongs? Insignificant, normally, but quite a sum for someone who didn't have a single woolong to their name. He began to be lost in his thoughts and in the hypnotic rhythym of the surf, but he was sharply snapped backed to reality by Jet's gruff, angry voice. "Well?" he barked. When Spike failed to reply, Jet demanded, "You do have five thousand woolongs, right?"
Spike finally looked up at the man. "Yes, of course," he lied easily. Jet dug into his pocket, pulled out a wad of wrinkled bills, and handed them reluctantly to Spike. "Don't lose this, and don't try anything funny, either," Jet warned. But Spike knew better and he walked determinedly twoards the auction's redeeming booth to pay for his prize. He looked back once, and noticed that Jet was not taking his eyes off of him for on moment.
The crowd had mostly dispersed. The people who were left were stragglers, either talking amongst themselves or watiing in line to pay for thier merchandise. The line moved slowly, and by the time Spike made it to booth, there was very few people left on the wharf. "Hey buddy," the bored volunteer said, "lemme see your receipt." Spike hadn't noticed how hungry he was until he stood there, waiting for the man in front of him to find the ship iin his notes and discover how much Spike owed him. His stomach groaned, and he thought the man would never look up from his notebook pages, covered in shorthand. "The old fishing ship, right? That's Forty-five grand, sir." Spike reluctnantly shoved the bills across the folding card table, losing the confident feeling one gets when their pockets are full of legitimate cash. As the man counted the money, he nosily asked, "Awful lot for a clunker like that, dontcha think? Yous coulda gotten one for a lot cheaper. Heck, I'da sold ya my old ship for twenty-five, maybe thirty grand." Spike refused to acknowledge the obnoxious man, and stood in uncomfortable silence until he was asked to sign the recepit marking the purchase.
After a few seconds consideration, Spike signed "Jet Black" as his name in the ownership form. He figured that he wouldn't be keeping the ship anyway. He might as well sign in the name of the real owner. But the main reason he signed under the false name was that he figured that the fewer amount of clues he gave that he was still alive, the better. He didn't know how far the Red Dragons would go to make sure Spike was really dead. They may or may not have bought the fact that his body was blown up in the rubble of the cathedral. If the Van thought he was still alive, they would undoubtedly send people after him. And if Vicious knew he was still alive, he would come after him alone. Spike couldn't decide which would be worse. But in order to keep that disaster from happening, he hadn't signed his real name to anything since he had faked his death. And he wasn't about to start. "Come again, Mr. Black," the cashier called to Spike's back.
Jet met him halfway down the dock. "Alright. So the ship is mine now, right?" Spike nodded emphatically, glad to have the man and the whole ordeal off his back. He turned to leave, wondering where to spend the night tonight, but Jet's strong hand gripped his shoulder and turned him around. "Hey, Spike! My money. I believe it was five thousand woolongs. Pay up."
Spike gulped, took a deep breath, and tried to sound convincing. "You see," he said nervously, "I don't have it with me." He glanced into Jet's cold, steel eyes, and quickly averted his stare back to the ground in front of him. "I wouldn't carry that kind of money all around town like that. It's, uh, back at my house." Once again, Jet didn't believe him. "I thought you were from off-planet, kid. That's what you said." Spike, trying to cover up, fumbled his words like a student giving his first oral report in front of class. "When I said that, of course I didn't mean, I mean, I was from off-planet, but I live here now. Down on the, uh, the street by the beach." Jet angrily spat back, "Most of Ganymede is a beach! I see what you're doing. You don't have the money. And you're planning to have me let you go so you can get the money, and you'll take off. Well, no way. You better find that money, or else I'll take this to the police. And let me tell you, I have a lot of friends there." Jet grabbed the collar of Spike's jacket. The last thing Spike wanted was more police records.
"Listen," Spike pleaded, drawing back from Jet's looming face, "you're right. I don't have the money now. But I'll get it to you. By... tomorrow. You have to trust me!" Spikes mind was already reeling with ways to get money overnight. The only ones he could think of were illegal, and all included theft of some kind. Great way to stay inconspicuous, Spike thought bitterly. Jet merely tightened his grip on Spike's collar. Spike, looking around for possible escape routes, whimpered, "I told you I could get you the money, don't you believe me?" It was obvious that Jet didn't.
Stay tuned for the next suspenseful chapter... but ONLY if you review, you dig? This is Captain Antilles signing off.
(I'm so sorry I haven't updated in months... I finally devoted myself to write again... be nice and review. If I get reviews then I write more...)
(Music: "You Make Me Cool")
"What the hell is your problem, kid?" Jet Black angrily spat at the morose Spike. "You know you can't back up that payment! You're just street trash! Why'd you bid at the last second, anyway? Are you even listening to me??" Jet paused to catch his breath. Spike tossed his cigarette into the water and watched the soggy ashes float on the murky surface. Spike resginedly repeated his excuse. "It was an accident. A mistake. I told you already. I wasn't trying to outbid you." Jet would have none of it. Just as he was about to launch into another line of criticism and interogation, Spike interjected, "What is it about that old fishing ship, anyway?"
Jet took a deep breath, and joined Spike at gazing into the water sloshing around the docks. "It has... certain sentimental connections for me, okay?" Spike nodded, groping through his jacket for the slim packet of cigarettes he seeked. "Whatever, Jet." Jet looked up, staring the lean young man in the face. He spoke slowly and deliberately. "You need to let me buy that ship. Do you understand? I will give you the forty five thousand you undoubtedly don't have to pay the city for that ship. Then," Jet paused to make sure his meaning was understood, "you owe me the balance, the five thousand woolongs that I wouldn't have had to pay if it wasn't for your 'mistake'." Jet leaned back on a wooden post and crossed his arms assertively.
Spike's eyes bulged in surprise for a moment, and then he realized the jam he was in. He sighed deeply, realizing that nothing had changed. He was always "wanted" for something, whether it be wanted by the police for unlawful Syndicate actvity, wanted by the Synidcate for betrayal, or wanted by an ex-cop for an insignificant wave of the hand worth 45,000 woolongs. Finally giving up on the unfruitful search for his cigarettes, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and closed his eyes. Why me? he thought. First Julia, then the escape, and now this. Five-thousand woolongs? Insignificant, normally, but quite a sum for someone who didn't have a single woolong to their name. He began to be lost in his thoughts and in the hypnotic rhythym of the surf, but he was sharply snapped backed to reality by Jet's gruff, angry voice. "Well?" he barked. When Spike failed to reply, Jet demanded, "You do have five thousand woolongs, right?"
Spike finally looked up at the man. "Yes, of course," he lied easily. Jet dug into his pocket, pulled out a wad of wrinkled bills, and handed them reluctantly to Spike. "Don't lose this, and don't try anything funny, either," Jet warned. But Spike knew better and he walked determinedly twoards the auction's redeeming booth to pay for his prize. He looked back once, and noticed that Jet was not taking his eyes off of him for on moment.
The crowd had mostly dispersed. The people who were left were stragglers, either talking amongst themselves or watiing in line to pay for thier merchandise. The line moved slowly, and by the time Spike made it to booth, there was very few people left on the wharf. "Hey buddy," the bored volunteer said, "lemme see your receipt." Spike hadn't noticed how hungry he was until he stood there, waiting for the man in front of him to find the ship iin his notes and discover how much Spike owed him. His stomach groaned, and he thought the man would never look up from his notebook pages, covered in shorthand. "The old fishing ship, right? That's Forty-five grand, sir." Spike reluctnantly shoved the bills across the folding card table, losing the confident feeling one gets when their pockets are full of legitimate cash. As the man counted the money, he nosily asked, "Awful lot for a clunker like that, dontcha think? Yous coulda gotten one for a lot cheaper. Heck, I'da sold ya my old ship for twenty-five, maybe thirty grand." Spike refused to acknowledge the obnoxious man, and stood in uncomfortable silence until he was asked to sign the recepit marking the purchase.
After a few seconds consideration, Spike signed "Jet Black" as his name in the ownership form. He figured that he wouldn't be keeping the ship anyway. He might as well sign in the name of the real owner. But the main reason he signed under the false name was that he figured that the fewer amount of clues he gave that he was still alive, the better. He didn't know how far the Red Dragons would go to make sure Spike was really dead. They may or may not have bought the fact that his body was blown up in the rubble of the cathedral. If the Van thought he was still alive, they would undoubtedly send people after him. And if Vicious knew he was still alive, he would come after him alone. Spike couldn't decide which would be worse. But in order to keep that disaster from happening, he hadn't signed his real name to anything since he had faked his death. And he wasn't about to start. "Come again, Mr. Black," the cashier called to Spike's back.
Jet met him halfway down the dock. "Alright. So the ship is mine now, right?" Spike nodded emphatically, glad to have the man and the whole ordeal off his back. He turned to leave, wondering where to spend the night tonight, but Jet's strong hand gripped his shoulder and turned him around. "Hey, Spike! My money. I believe it was five thousand woolongs. Pay up."
Spike gulped, took a deep breath, and tried to sound convincing. "You see," he said nervously, "I don't have it with me." He glanced into Jet's cold, steel eyes, and quickly averted his stare back to the ground in front of him. "I wouldn't carry that kind of money all around town like that. It's, uh, back at my house." Once again, Jet didn't believe him. "I thought you were from off-planet, kid. That's what you said." Spike, trying to cover up, fumbled his words like a student giving his first oral report in front of class. "When I said that, of course I didn't mean, I mean, I was from off-planet, but I live here now. Down on the, uh, the street by the beach." Jet angrily spat back, "Most of Ganymede is a beach! I see what you're doing. You don't have the money. And you're planning to have me let you go so you can get the money, and you'll take off. Well, no way. You better find that money, or else I'll take this to the police. And let me tell you, I have a lot of friends there." Jet grabbed the collar of Spike's jacket. The last thing Spike wanted was more police records.
"Listen," Spike pleaded, drawing back from Jet's looming face, "you're right. I don't have the money now. But I'll get it to you. By... tomorrow. You have to trust me!" Spikes mind was already reeling with ways to get money overnight. The only ones he could think of were illegal, and all included theft of some kind. Great way to stay inconspicuous, Spike thought bitterly. Jet merely tightened his grip on Spike's collar. Spike, looking around for possible escape routes, whimpered, "I told you I could get you the money, don't you believe me?" It was obvious that Jet didn't.
Stay tuned for the next suspenseful chapter... but ONLY if you review, you dig? This is Captain Antilles signing off.
