Because I have always wondered why Gin and Vodka were on that rollercoaster ride …

In Which Gin Attends a Theme Park

Gin was not happy. In fact, he was close to pulling out his Beretta 92 and shoving the barrel of the gun in his partner's mouth, if only to shut the idiot up. Being stuck at Tropical Land was vile enough; having to put up with Vodka's inane suggestions for how they could "pass the time" was like listening to fingernails scratching on chalkboards. If it wasn't incessant pleas for ice cream or takoyaki ("It'll help us blend in, Aniki!"), it was ridiculously transparent suggestions that they try out some of the attractions. Their current conversation was a case in point.

"Aniki," Vodka said in what he thought was probably a winning voice, "we still have time before the meeting with that company owner. We could—"

"No."

"But—"

"No," Gin repeated, and glared at his partner for good measure. "There will be no pirate ships, no log rides, no bumper cars. Just no."

Vodka pouted. Idiot was like an overgrown baby. Gin lit up a cigarette, despite the "No Smoking" sign displayed a metre away, and purposely ignored the stockier man. He wished he had taken someone else with him on this job. Even Vermouth, privately known as Verboobs amongst most of the males of the Organisation (though Gin usually just called her That Woman), would have been better. Verboobs might be as trustworthy as a snake and smug to a fault, but at least she wouldn't have whined in his ear about food and stupid theme park rides. Unfortunately, someone had to keep an eye on Vodka, and that role had fallen to Gin.

Gin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand, trying to ward off a sudden headache. Damn this sick-making place. Tropical Land was a blight on his soul: too colourful, too cheerful, and too damn full of people. If someone gave him a machine gun and a suitcase of plastic explosives, he would have happily set about renovating the theme park to make it more to his likings.

A chilling smile curved Gin's mouth. Ah, blood and screaming. Now there was something he could enjoy. Vodka saw his expression and must have mistaken the smile for a softening of attitude, because he once again tried to convince Gin that it was in their best interest to try one of the rides.

"Look, there's the Mystery Coaster," Vodka said in a hopeful voice. He pointed at a garishly decorated tunnel that was no doubt filled with equally garish props to frighten training-bra wearing girls and their milk-chinned, male companions. The penises were obviously for decoration; real men did not do theme park rides. Ever. "Weren't you saying before that you wanted to get a good vantage point to view the ferris wheel and see if that guy came alone?"

Gin made a noncommittal sound. It was true that he wanted to make sure they were not about to walk into a trap. He only had one policy: trust no one. It was a way of life that had got him to where he was now: an executive agent within the Organisation with a knack for sniffing out traitors before the double-crossing bastards could even begin to start crossing. So, naturally, he was suspicious of the fat company owner whom they were about to meet. Greasy-handed smugglers like Fat Man were usually cowards, and cowards did stupid things like try inviting their friends to private meetings. Gin was not fond of uninvited guests. Still, right now he was even less impressed with Vodka.

"What's your point?" Gin asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke and flicking some ash from the tip of his cigarette.

Vodka grinned, encouraged by the fact that the long-haired man was responding with more than a grunt. "This ride will give us a good view of Tropical Land—especially the area around the ferris wheel. We'll be able to see if there is anyone suspicious lurking around our man, and we'll be able to do it without even alerting him to our presence."

Gin's eyes narrowed. The proposal was … oddly logical. They would indeed have a good vantage point from the coaster, and it was unlikely Fat Man would look up at the Mystery Coaster ride seats to find his blackmailers in amongst the other passengers. The problem was Gin's own pride (see previous note about milk-chinned males), not to mention his suspicion that Vodka had only made the proposal because the idiot was getting desperate and wanted to go on at least one ride before they left the theme park.

Vodka plastered his best "Ima Serious Guy Doing Serious Business" expression on his face. No one was buying it—especially not Gin—but the blond could not ignore the obvious benefits from following the strategy. They did need to know if their target had brought friends, and it was important they do it without arousing suspicion. Skilled or not, there was only the two of them to conduct the trade. The last thing Gin needed was to deal with some meat-for-hire rookies with guns in the middle of a theme park. Upholding the secrecy of the Organisation was a must.

Expression showing nothing, Gin took a last puff of his smoke and let the cigarette slip from long fingers to the ground. He ground the burning tip out with the heel of his shoe and then, without a word, began casually walking towards the Mystery Coaster. Vodka stood frozen for a moment, but then quickly rushed after Gin, suitcase in hand.

"Bro," Vodka said, trying and failing to sound like the Big Bad Criminal he was meant to be, "does this mean you approve? We're really going to ride the Mystery Coaster?"

Gin's left eye twitched. "Don't get carried away, Vodka. We're doing this for reconnaissance work only. If you so much as squeal, scream or laugh while next to me on the ride, I will shoot you with my Beretta 92. Your spilt blood will be the balm to all the wounded sensibilities I have suffered this day."

Vodka promptly hid his grin behind a suitably villainous expression. Big Bad Criminal Face was on. "Right," he said in his best gruff voice. "We've gotta look for that guy and make sure he came alone."

Gin just ground his teeth and entered the garishly decorated tunnel. This ride had better be worth it.