12: One Funky-Looking Blaster

So I rode into this little town, more like a village I guess, place was called Zamoshye. It was a pretty cute little village, lemme tell you, just a gathering of houses and a church. There was this Ruthenian-style church, and I saw Ruthenians, so I could safely assume that it was a Ruthenian settlement. I got some glances, a few annoyed ones because of the engine noise, as I went in. It was on the route I was riding down, and I needed some coffee, so there wasn't really any avoiding this place. Found a gas station across the street from the church, just a generic-looking one. Had a kinda Googie look to it, which set it apart from the rural Ruthenian feel of the rest of the settlement. The place also had a sign that said "PETROL" next to it, was probably the second-tallest thing in the village aside from the church's onion dome. Saw a sign taped to the window that really warmed my heart though: "COFFEE." I went inside. Looked like a generic little gas station convenience store: aisles half-full with snacks and shit, worn tile floor, flickering fluorescent lights, fridges in the back, false ceiling panels. I was at the door, the cashier was to the left, and to the right of the cashier, was a table with the coffee. Made a beeline for that table, and found myself a nice cup of black gold. The coffee, not oil.

Went to the cashier to pay for it. "Two dollars even," said the guy with a thick Ruthenian accent. Was a Sclav, of course, those big dragon dudes. Must've been like seven feet tall or something, he was fucking huge.

"Two dollars for a cup of coffee?" I questioned. "Black, nevertheless."

"These are Papetoonese dollars we're talking about here, not credits," said the cashier.

"Oh yeah, right." Forgot how less valued the Papetoonese dollar is to the Cornerian credit. Rummaged through my wallet for a bit, trying to look for enough dollars. Most of the money on me was in the form of credit chips. Most people around those places, the small towns, didn't use dollars because they were so devalued when compared to creds.

While I was busy digging through my pockets, I barely heard the automatic doors to the place open, and the welcome bell chime. Heard some scurrying footsteps quickly approach us. Then, a blaster cocking.

"Yeah, you know what this is!" said a youthful voice. I looked to my left, and there was the barrel of this automatic blaster pistol staring right at my mug. I'll never forget it, it was steel-plated with a nice polymer grip. The barrel was elongated with a triangular post sight at the end, and the extended magazine jutted out the grip itself. The frame had a sleek look.

"Fuck," I uttered.

"Money, wallets, watches, phones, jewelry, everything!" said the robber clad in a shirt two sizes bigger than him, baggy cargo pants, sneakers, and a red checkered bandana covering half of his face. Was definitely a fox, though. Tossed a reusable shopping bag on the countertop. He waved his blaster between me and the cashier. "C'mon dragon man, empty the register! And you, wolf man! Empty your pockets!"

"You little shit," I said.

"Shut the fuck up or else I'll shoot you! Don't play with me now, I'll shoot you!"

The cashier started tossing cash from the register into the bag, but the robber started getting impatient, turning his attention to the poor guy.

"Fucking faster!" the thief barked at the cashier. The guy seemed cool as a cucumber, and most importantly, garnered the gunman's attention. I drew on him, but he caught sight of my movement from the corner of his eye. His aim shifted back to me, and I ducked, firing off a shot with my Universal. Missed, my rotten luck. The guy unloaded on me, tried to anyway. The blaster bolts went every which way except on my person, bursting open salty snack bags and bottles of soft drinks. That was very rapid fire, and in like two, maybe three seconds, the thug emptied his mag. Had to find him, though, since I leaped behind a shelf of chocolate-covered pretzels.

More tense moments passed before I heard single shots. The blaster was definitely select-fire, and apparently he set the thing to semi. He took random blind shots at empty shelves, trying to flush me out. Too bad for him, I was a bit more patient, and smarter, than that. Got hearing good enough to precisely pinpoint where he was, and apparently he moved to his right, my left, but only a few paces or so. As I readied myself, adrenaline pumping through my veins, my finger on the trigger, I rushed to pop out and blast his candy ass to kingdom come. Then there was a loud bang, louder than anything I'd heard that day. A blaster shot. My ears were still ringing when I walked out into the open to see what the fuck happened. The thug was dead, a hole the size of a watermelon ripped into his chest. Looked around to see the clerk holding one funky-looking blaster, pointing the business end at the thug's body. It was bolt-action, neo-poly frame. No iron sights, awkward pistol grip, the barrel red-hot.

"The fuck is that?" I asked, the ringing in my ears dying down as I took in deep breaths to calm myself.

"It's what we call an Obrez," said the dragon. "It means 'sawn-off' in my language. It's basically a rifle cut down to pistol size."

"Holy shit."

"Yeah, I love this thing. It's a family heirloom, my grandfather used it in our Civil War, and he handed it down to my father, and then my father handed it down to me. This is the third time I've had to use it."

"How old is it?"

"Hmm…. At least five hundred years old."

"Goddamn! How many bodies are there on it?"

"I… I try not to think about that."

"Oh, alright."

I shuffled towards the thug, who was stone-cold dead, splayed out on the tile floor, a pool of blood slowly emanating from his corpse. Lightly jostled his head with my foot, making sure he wasn't getting up. He had that distinct soulless stare everyone gets when they die suddenly. Rifled through his pockets, picked clean his wallet and shit. Saw his ID, I think, can't quite remember. Definitely don't remember his name. Also nabbed his blaster, looked sleek, kinda cool.

"Can I keep this?" I asked the clerk.

"Sure, whatever," said the clerk, shrugging his hulking shoulders. "You know, that's Magyar."

"What, this thing?"

"Yes, the design's Magyar. Quite old, about as old as my Obrez."

"Is it good?"

"Eh… it can clear a room, a trench, a phone booth."

"Good enough for me." I stuffed the blaster near the base of my tail, in the small of my back. Looked back at the clerk, where I saw he was cycling the bolt on his sawn-off rifle, the empty shell casing white hot, flying free, landing to the side of the guy. A sawn-off rifle. How crazy is that. Anyway, I went back to doing what I was doing before, trying to pick this corpse clean. A few moments later, I got all I wanted from this body. Then I went to the clerk. "Now, about that coffee…"

"Don't worry about it, this one's free," the dragon said.

"Really?" I asked, not really believing it. A silent nod and brief smile assuaged any concern I had. "Alright." I shrugged my shoulders.

"I'll call the cops, I know them," he continued. "Nothing much, just another instance of self-defense, eh?"

"Exactly." I raised the coffee cup in salutations and left, saying a parting goodbye and receiving one in exchange. Took a sip, and the coffee was shit. But it was coffee, so I kept drinking it a bit.

Sat down on my bike, looking at the Magyar blaster I looted. Aimed down the sights. Pretty light, a little compact, but not much since the barrel was jutting out and the extended magazine meant that it'd be awkward to carry concealed, but for automatic fire in such a small package? Yes, please. I shoved it into my jacket to see how it'd feel, and lo and behold, the magazine was poking my ribs. I shook my head as I stuffed it at my back again. Looked up, saw a police car and two cops come out. More Sclavic dragons. They glanced at me and me at them, but then they strutted inside. I heard some conversations, couldn't make out the words. They definitely talked in that Ruthenian language. Didn't feel too keen on hanging around, so I bolted on my bike.

Rode down the road a ways, about ten minutes' worth, before I got a call. Got me riled up, I was sitting pretty, feeling the wind in my fur, my ears flapping, my tongue hanging out, burnt coffee passing my lips, and all of a sudden there's an unexpected vibration in my pants. Slowed down enough to where I could hold a conversation and ride at the same time.

"Wolf O'Donnell," I said, beginning the call.

"Wolf?" a vaguely familiar voice said. Definitely a guy. At first I couldn't quite place where I'd heard him from before. Then he kept talking. "It's me, Nikolai. From that Julius Ra-Ki incident." Ah, right. How could I ever forget Nikolai?

I stopped my bike on the side of the road. "Nikolai… what can I do for you?"

"Listen," he sheepishly started, "I'd like for us to meet. In person. Are you busy?"

"No, not at the moment. Yeah, I'll be able to meet."

"Good, that's good. I'm in a town called Wansui. I'll be waiting at the Song Hotel."

"Got it. It's a date then – well, a meeting."

"Of course."

My face got red hot and I felt everything get warmer, but not because of the sun. Goddammit. Anyway, we exchanged goodbyes and I hung up.

Wondered why Nikolai called me outta the blue like that. Guess I'd get my answers soon. Felt like it'd be a long, winding road to get to him, though. Kinda was, actually. How'd I know? The first wacky encounter happened just a few hours after the call, towards the mid-afternoon.