Today we're seeing a few new faces, though only as minor cogs in the big ol' plot machine. More good old Vashness too. On with the story!
Disclaimer: /was AWOL/
Rise of the Silver Stars
Chapter 5: McMurdock and Flint Ltd.
There were three piles of stuff on the desk. The one to the right was items incoming that would need his attention. The one on the left were items outgoing that had received his attention. The one in the middle was a pile he looked at whenever he wanted to be reminded why the hell he bothered to move items from the right pile to the left pile. It consisted of letters of thanks, with the occasional 'Thank You' or 'You're a Pal' cards. It wasn't a very large pile, but it did mean a lot to him. It represented all the people who thought him, Samual L. Flint Jr., worthy of some small gesture of gratitude. Most never bothered to give him a second thought, just hoping that he'd use his pen to write an 'OK' on what they gave him in the right pile before moving it onto the left pile.
Speaking of which, the next item on the right pile was a really thick one. He sighed. Matilda had probably gotten it mixed in with his normal things when it should have gone to Raymond across the hall. However, the address on it specifically indicated himself. He shrugged. It wasn't uncommon for someone who he had approved to try and send things by him again, but if they hadn't remembered to add at least a 'Thanks for looking' note he'd just pitch the whole thing across the hall into Raymond's office, where it'd vanish into the vast sea of junk the old McMurdock kept. That didn't mean it was lost, oh no- Raymond knew every pile of that room, and would instantly spot anything new.
Tearing off the shipping wrapper, he noticed a strip of red cloth flutter down. It was quite bright, and fit nicely into his palm. He grinned a bit. Someone had done their homework- red was his favorite color. Deeming this item worthy of at least a dignified trip across the hall if it was going to take one at all, he pulled off the rest of the wrapper and started to read the note on top.
"Hiya Samual! It's been quite a while, but I remembered how much you liked the coat. It's Red No. 8 if you still want to get one like it, but for now here's a bit from mine. -V"
This was new. He certainly couldn't remember anyone's coat making much of itself recently. Turning the cloth over in his hand, it rippled a bit, and then he remembered. He had been only about nine or ten. Dad had only just joined with the McMurdocks to establish the company, and they still had to do all their own finances, which in this case meant a trip to the bank to get the payroll. He had been playing hide and seek with some other kid in the rock garden it had, boldly defying the little strip of black plastic that marked it off limits, when the Lawrence Gang burst in. He had damn near wet himself when they fired a few rounds into the roof. They hadn't been the best of outlaws, forgetting that the sheriff's was just on the other side of the street and that a regiment of the Cavalry was in town. It quickly turned from a heist to a standoff, and he had been one of the hostages. Dad had somehow made it outside in the confusion, and he could see him out the window trying to get back to him but held back by the Cavalry.
The only reason that he hadn't fallen apart right there was because of some idiot in red that was right next to him, bawling his lungs out and screaming for mercy as if he was the scared kid and not some grownup until one of the Lawrences yelled at him to shut up. He mostly did, but kept on making quiet yet really annoying whines like some kicked cat until the same member had enough and made to punch him into a completely quiet state. What happened next was almost a blur. The fear the guy had vanished like it had never been there to begin with. There was a flash of silver, and the gang member when down with a thud. The guy rushed the rest of the outlaws and took down two more before the rest wised up and started shooting. The guy turned and ran back, screaming like he had seen a ghost while dodging wildly. The outlaws ended up shooting down the ropes that held up the lights, which then fell gracefully onto their collective heads. He grinned like a lucky goof and held up two fingers in a 'V'. That was when the Cavalry charged the building.
The thomases battered through the front doors, windows, and weaker sections of the wall, including one that leaped in right at him. Everything seemed to slow down then, as the clawed foot came closer and closer through the air. Then there was a flash of red as something hit him from the side. Next thing he knew, he was outside, his hands with white knuckled grips on the red coat that guy was wearing. The guy gave him a smile, and said "If you like it so much, maybe you should get your own someday." Then his dad was hugging him and crying, asking if he was okay. It had been embarrassing, until the guy in red spoke up- "Don't be embarrassed kid, it just means your dad loves you." His dad thanked the guy profusely, but the guy just waved it off and turned to walk away. Dad made one more offer of thanks- "Hey mister! If you ever need to publish something, just send it to me, Samual L. Flint Sr. of McMurdock and Flint! I'll see that it gets to the shelves!"
The guy in red waved back. "Thanks! I'll keep that in mind!" Then the guy was around the corner, and he never heard from him again.
Until now. The piece of red cloth was rough in his hand. His dad had retired from the company some seven years prior, but he remembered the offer. And now, it appeared that he'd get a chance to fulfill that offer at long last, some twenty years after it had been made. He moved the note off the pile, and started to read the book. His eyes glanced across the title. Huh. Another biography on the infamous Vash the Stampede. One of these would appear from time to time, but most were just hearsay and none were worth printing. Then he saw the author.
His eyes doubled back to the red cloth, the title, the author. A red coat. The rumors. Took down a whole gang right before his eyes. The book. It couldn't have been the Vash the Stampede! ...could it? That guy had been a simpering lucky idiot! However, he knew from seeing enough baseless articles just how much was really just rumors on rumors around the legend. Nobody really knew who Vash the Stampede was. But he might... It was sitting right there, a nice stack of typed paper. All he had to do was turn the page... He got up, and got himself a big pitcher of water and some rum. He had a feeling he'd need it.
Sitting back down, he turned the page.
¤ ¤ ¤
Raymond liked to come in at 8 o'clock sharp. It was just a time like any other to most folks, but it was important to him. At 8 o'clock some forty years ago, he had run into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. One thing led to another, and before he knew it she was his wife, now of thirty-nine years. Thus, he always made it a point to try and start things at 8 o'clock, no matter how odd it seemed to other folks. He knew it was his lucky time. He nodded to the inkers as he passed by their workshop on his way to the stairs that led up to the main offices. He hopped up them to mock the few whispers he heard that suggested he was getting old, and turned into the small disaster that was his office. He plonked down and started to rummage through the various books that were strewn around when he noticed that Samual was in his office across the hall. That was unusual- he didn't come in until around noon at the earliest most days. He hopped back up to see what had managed to get him up at this time.
"Hey lil' Sammy! What brings you in at this hour?"
Samual looked up from what he had been staring at. His eyes were thoroughly bloodshot, but not from the rum that sat next to him- it had hardly been touched. No, this was the bloodshot look of someone who got a good book and just couldn't put it down. For them, those were surefire signs of approval.
"That good huh? Then stop hogging it and toss it here! I'll run it down to the setters and you can keep the first copy off the presses."
"Actually, it's not that good."
"What?"
"The grammar is downright horrid in spots, the prose is uninspired for most of it, and it's riddled with spelling errors."
"Then why is it still up here and not in file 13?" His foot tapped the trashcan.
"Because this is a story that needs to be read. Look for yourself." Samual flipped the stack of papers over and spun them around for him.
"The Life and Times of Vash the Stampede... by Himself?! Sure you didn't drink a bit too much? I've seen these things before, they're always fakes."
"Oh, this one's the real thing." Samual flipped a little strip of red cloth, looking at it as if it was made of gold. "Trust me on this one Ray. This was written by Vash the Stampede, and everyone is going to want to read it."
He had worked with both Samuals long enough to know that they had great judgment about these things. If Sam said it was going to sell, it was going to sell like hotcakes. It was part of how they had managed to become the biggest publishing company on Gunsmoke. "Then I'll run it on down to editing."
"No, send it right to the setters. Don't change a letter."
He nodded. "Your call Sammy. Why don't you run on home, you need to catch some sleep."
"Good idea Ray, I've just got one stop before that."
"What could be so important that it can't wait until after you're rested up?"
Samual grinned, making the bags under his eyes scrunch up. "I've got to order a coat. Don't ask."
¤ ¤ ¤
It had been nearly three weeks since their household of three became a household of four. The fourth one didn't really count. To be a part of a household, there was a certain amount of interaction required, and the fourth 'member' fell far short of those requirements. Knives was driving her up the wall. He refused to eat anything that he didn't make himself. He refused to talk with anyone but Vash. He'd always keep one eye on her whenever they were in the same room- literally! One eye of his would always be staring right at her while the other would be looking in a completely different direction. The first time she noticed that she had nearly lept through the roof. Now she suspected that he was doing it just to annoy her. The books were the worst. One eye in a fixed glare on her, while the other scanned the lines normally. At least Vash was always around- he had managed to snare a job as a cook at the same diner where she worked as a waitress, so they were rarely apart. His presence definitely made tolerating his brother easier. Otherwise, she would have probably shot Knives someplace painful yet nonvital by now. Or possibly painful and vital.
Today had been fairly relaxing, since she didn't have to put up with Knives. He was busy fixing up an old truck Vash had pulled out of the desert, which seemed to be the only thing he was actually good for. It was already in nearly perfect running order, but that just wasn't good enough for Knives. He'd keep after it until it was absolutely perfect in every detail. As to why they needed a truck, she supposed that Vash was starting to get itchy staying in one place for so long. She made a note to keep from getting anything that would be hard to transport- not that she had the money to be splurging on luxuries. There was food on the table and a roof over their heads, and that was good enough. Any extra was put away for emergencies, and knowing Vash, there was plenty of opportunity for those.
It was getting into early evening, and the town was starting to liven up as the temperatures dropped into more livable ranges. There was just a bit of a breeze blowing through the window that picked up as the evening wore on. She was enjoying the lassitude far more than she let on, but it stopped when a typhoon blew in the front door. Or rather, the humanoid equivalent. Vash was practically bubbling over with energy, engaged in a creating a horribly off key song based entirely around the words "It's here!"
"Enough with the suspense. What's here?"
"Fresh off the supply truck! The greatest story ever told!"
He held up a book. Even from across the room, she could read the title. "So, you got it printed?"
"Yeah! It's probably all over Gunsmoke by now! Now everyone will know the man behind the name!"
"I'll listen for the laughter. In the meantime, Mr. Vash the Stampede..."
She tossed an apron at him. "It's time that you got started on dinner."
"But snooky woogums, I was hoping I'd get to enjoy reading it." He was giving her the eyes.
"Of course you can- after dinner. Now get in there before I snooky your woogums!"
He tossed on the apron and dragged his feet towards the kitchen, shoulders hunched over, arms hanging limp. He made a few audible sniffles.
"Well, if it means that much to you..." Vash practically sprang into his happy mode, all grins and sparkling eyes. "...I'll help you fix dinner."
His features faulted right in front of her. He was just so cute when he did that. He had probably staged the whole thing- even now, the tit for tat was something they both still enjoyed, though they'd never voice it. She hopped up and gave him a peck on the cheek then turned him around.
"Now march. One two one two!"
He tromped off with her right behind.
Ah, so our favorite broomhead has contacts in the publishing biz. Would that we were so lucky. Tune in next time for Knives' reaction! You may want earplugs.
Reviewer Responses
Sorian: Phew. No flayings for me today!
El Hustino: You mean there are folks who read it and make no notice that they did? Then there might be... /turns a light to the all-concealing shadows, sees hundreds of eyes/ YAA!
SapphireWhiteTigress: There's going to be a lot more Milly down the road, so it's good I seem able to write her.
Yma: Knives wasn't that hard- just imagine a ten-foot pole that's stuck... well, you get the idea.
Disclaimer: /was AWOL/
Rise of the Silver Stars
Chapter 5: McMurdock and Flint Ltd.
There were three piles of stuff on the desk. The one to the right was items incoming that would need his attention. The one on the left were items outgoing that had received his attention. The one in the middle was a pile he looked at whenever he wanted to be reminded why the hell he bothered to move items from the right pile to the left pile. It consisted of letters of thanks, with the occasional 'Thank You' or 'You're a Pal' cards. It wasn't a very large pile, but it did mean a lot to him. It represented all the people who thought him, Samual L. Flint Jr., worthy of some small gesture of gratitude. Most never bothered to give him a second thought, just hoping that he'd use his pen to write an 'OK' on what they gave him in the right pile before moving it onto the left pile.
Speaking of which, the next item on the right pile was a really thick one. He sighed. Matilda had probably gotten it mixed in with his normal things when it should have gone to Raymond across the hall. However, the address on it specifically indicated himself. He shrugged. It wasn't uncommon for someone who he had approved to try and send things by him again, but if they hadn't remembered to add at least a 'Thanks for looking' note he'd just pitch the whole thing across the hall into Raymond's office, where it'd vanish into the vast sea of junk the old McMurdock kept. That didn't mean it was lost, oh no- Raymond knew every pile of that room, and would instantly spot anything new.
Tearing off the shipping wrapper, he noticed a strip of red cloth flutter down. It was quite bright, and fit nicely into his palm. He grinned a bit. Someone had done their homework- red was his favorite color. Deeming this item worthy of at least a dignified trip across the hall if it was going to take one at all, he pulled off the rest of the wrapper and started to read the note on top.
"Hiya Samual! It's been quite a while, but I remembered how much you liked the coat. It's Red No. 8 if you still want to get one like it, but for now here's a bit from mine. -V"
This was new. He certainly couldn't remember anyone's coat making much of itself recently. Turning the cloth over in his hand, it rippled a bit, and then he remembered. He had been only about nine or ten. Dad had only just joined with the McMurdocks to establish the company, and they still had to do all their own finances, which in this case meant a trip to the bank to get the payroll. He had been playing hide and seek with some other kid in the rock garden it had, boldly defying the little strip of black plastic that marked it off limits, when the Lawrence Gang burst in. He had damn near wet himself when they fired a few rounds into the roof. They hadn't been the best of outlaws, forgetting that the sheriff's was just on the other side of the street and that a regiment of the Cavalry was in town. It quickly turned from a heist to a standoff, and he had been one of the hostages. Dad had somehow made it outside in the confusion, and he could see him out the window trying to get back to him but held back by the Cavalry.
The only reason that he hadn't fallen apart right there was because of some idiot in red that was right next to him, bawling his lungs out and screaming for mercy as if he was the scared kid and not some grownup until one of the Lawrences yelled at him to shut up. He mostly did, but kept on making quiet yet really annoying whines like some kicked cat until the same member had enough and made to punch him into a completely quiet state. What happened next was almost a blur. The fear the guy had vanished like it had never been there to begin with. There was a flash of silver, and the gang member when down with a thud. The guy rushed the rest of the outlaws and took down two more before the rest wised up and started shooting. The guy turned and ran back, screaming like he had seen a ghost while dodging wildly. The outlaws ended up shooting down the ropes that held up the lights, which then fell gracefully onto their collective heads. He grinned like a lucky goof and held up two fingers in a 'V'. That was when the Cavalry charged the building.
The thomases battered through the front doors, windows, and weaker sections of the wall, including one that leaped in right at him. Everything seemed to slow down then, as the clawed foot came closer and closer through the air. Then there was a flash of red as something hit him from the side. Next thing he knew, he was outside, his hands with white knuckled grips on the red coat that guy was wearing. The guy gave him a smile, and said "If you like it so much, maybe you should get your own someday." Then his dad was hugging him and crying, asking if he was okay. It had been embarrassing, until the guy in red spoke up- "Don't be embarrassed kid, it just means your dad loves you." His dad thanked the guy profusely, but the guy just waved it off and turned to walk away. Dad made one more offer of thanks- "Hey mister! If you ever need to publish something, just send it to me, Samual L. Flint Sr. of McMurdock and Flint! I'll see that it gets to the shelves!"
The guy in red waved back. "Thanks! I'll keep that in mind!" Then the guy was around the corner, and he never heard from him again.
Until now. The piece of red cloth was rough in his hand. His dad had retired from the company some seven years prior, but he remembered the offer. And now, it appeared that he'd get a chance to fulfill that offer at long last, some twenty years after it had been made. He moved the note off the pile, and started to read the book. His eyes glanced across the title. Huh. Another biography on the infamous Vash the Stampede. One of these would appear from time to time, but most were just hearsay and none were worth printing. Then he saw the author.
His eyes doubled back to the red cloth, the title, the author. A red coat. The rumors. Took down a whole gang right before his eyes. The book. It couldn't have been the Vash the Stampede! ...could it? That guy had been a simpering lucky idiot! However, he knew from seeing enough baseless articles just how much was really just rumors on rumors around the legend. Nobody really knew who Vash the Stampede was. But he might... It was sitting right there, a nice stack of typed paper. All he had to do was turn the page... He got up, and got himself a big pitcher of water and some rum. He had a feeling he'd need it.
Sitting back down, he turned the page.
¤ ¤ ¤
Raymond liked to come in at 8 o'clock sharp. It was just a time like any other to most folks, but it was important to him. At 8 o'clock some forty years ago, he had run into the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. One thing led to another, and before he knew it she was his wife, now of thirty-nine years. Thus, he always made it a point to try and start things at 8 o'clock, no matter how odd it seemed to other folks. He knew it was his lucky time. He nodded to the inkers as he passed by their workshop on his way to the stairs that led up to the main offices. He hopped up them to mock the few whispers he heard that suggested he was getting old, and turned into the small disaster that was his office. He plonked down and started to rummage through the various books that were strewn around when he noticed that Samual was in his office across the hall. That was unusual- he didn't come in until around noon at the earliest most days. He hopped back up to see what had managed to get him up at this time.
"Hey lil' Sammy! What brings you in at this hour?"
Samual looked up from what he had been staring at. His eyes were thoroughly bloodshot, but not from the rum that sat next to him- it had hardly been touched. No, this was the bloodshot look of someone who got a good book and just couldn't put it down. For them, those were surefire signs of approval.
"That good huh? Then stop hogging it and toss it here! I'll run it down to the setters and you can keep the first copy off the presses."
"Actually, it's not that good."
"What?"
"The grammar is downright horrid in spots, the prose is uninspired for most of it, and it's riddled with spelling errors."
"Then why is it still up here and not in file 13?" His foot tapped the trashcan.
"Because this is a story that needs to be read. Look for yourself." Samual flipped the stack of papers over and spun them around for him.
"The Life and Times of Vash the Stampede... by Himself?! Sure you didn't drink a bit too much? I've seen these things before, they're always fakes."
"Oh, this one's the real thing." Samual flipped a little strip of red cloth, looking at it as if it was made of gold. "Trust me on this one Ray. This was written by Vash the Stampede, and everyone is going to want to read it."
He had worked with both Samuals long enough to know that they had great judgment about these things. If Sam said it was going to sell, it was going to sell like hotcakes. It was part of how they had managed to become the biggest publishing company on Gunsmoke. "Then I'll run it on down to editing."
"No, send it right to the setters. Don't change a letter."
He nodded. "Your call Sammy. Why don't you run on home, you need to catch some sleep."
"Good idea Ray, I've just got one stop before that."
"What could be so important that it can't wait until after you're rested up?"
Samual grinned, making the bags under his eyes scrunch up. "I've got to order a coat. Don't ask."
¤ ¤ ¤
It had been nearly three weeks since their household of three became a household of four. The fourth one didn't really count. To be a part of a household, there was a certain amount of interaction required, and the fourth 'member' fell far short of those requirements. Knives was driving her up the wall. He refused to eat anything that he didn't make himself. He refused to talk with anyone but Vash. He'd always keep one eye on her whenever they were in the same room- literally! One eye of his would always be staring right at her while the other would be looking in a completely different direction. The first time she noticed that she had nearly lept through the roof. Now she suspected that he was doing it just to annoy her. The books were the worst. One eye in a fixed glare on her, while the other scanned the lines normally. At least Vash was always around- he had managed to snare a job as a cook at the same diner where she worked as a waitress, so they were rarely apart. His presence definitely made tolerating his brother easier. Otherwise, she would have probably shot Knives someplace painful yet nonvital by now. Or possibly painful and vital.
Today had been fairly relaxing, since she didn't have to put up with Knives. He was busy fixing up an old truck Vash had pulled out of the desert, which seemed to be the only thing he was actually good for. It was already in nearly perfect running order, but that just wasn't good enough for Knives. He'd keep after it until it was absolutely perfect in every detail. As to why they needed a truck, she supposed that Vash was starting to get itchy staying in one place for so long. She made a note to keep from getting anything that would be hard to transport- not that she had the money to be splurging on luxuries. There was food on the table and a roof over their heads, and that was good enough. Any extra was put away for emergencies, and knowing Vash, there was plenty of opportunity for those.
It was getting into early evening, and the town was starting to liven up as the temperatures dropped into more livable ranges. There was just a bit of a breeze blowing through the window that picked up as the evening wore on. She was enjoying the lassitude far more than she let on, but it stopped when a typhoon blew in the front door. Or rather, the humanoid equivalent. Vash was practically bubbling over with energy, engaged in a creating a horribly off key song based entirely around the words "It's here!"
"Enough with the suspense. What's here?"
"Fresh off the supply truck! The greatest story ever told!"
He held up a book. Even from across the room, she could read the title. "So, you got it printed?"
"Yeah! It's probably all over Gunsmoke by now! Now everyone will know the man behind the name!"
"I'll listen for the laughter. In the meantime, Mr. Vash the Stampede..."
She tossed an apron at him. "It's time that you got started on dinner."
"But snooky woogums, I was hoping I'd get to enjoy reading it." He was giving her the eyes.
"Of course you can- after dinner. Now get in there before I snooky your woogums!"
He tossed on the apron and dragged his feet towards the kitchen, shoulders hunched over, arms hanging limp. He made a few audible sniffles.
"Well, if it means that much to you..." Vash practically sprang into his happy mode, all grins and sparkling eyes. "...I'll help you fix dinner."
His features faulted right in front of her. He was just so cute when he did that. He had probably staged the whole thing- even now, the tit for tat was something they both still enjoyed, though they'd never voice it. She hopped up and gave him a peck on the cheek then turned him around.
"Now march. One two one two!"
He tromped off with her right behind.
Ah, so our favorite broomhead has contacts in the publishing biz. Would that we were so lucky. Tune in next time for Knives' reaction! You may want earplugs.
Reviewer Responses
Sorian: Phew. No flayings for me today!
El Hustino: You mean there are folks who read it and make no notice that they did? Then there might be... /turns a light to the all-concealing shadows, sees hundreds of eyes/ YAA!
SapphireWhiteTigress: There's going to be a lot more Milly down the road, so it's good I seem able to write her.
Yma: Knives wasn't that hard- just imagine a ten-foot pole that's stuck... well, you get the idea.