DISCLAIMER – I do not own any Sonic the Hedgehog characters, settings, etcetera (anything copyrightedly relating to SEGA's works). Fang the Sniper / Nack the Weasel is property of SEGA, although some aspects of this story are my own work. Alterations to the Sonic universe in this story are not to be considered canon. Do not steal (forge in your or another person's name) or sell this story in any manner. I have a good lawyer. You may, however, place this on your website without permission. Please ask permission before using aspects of this story in yours. If sections of it look similar to another, please inform me. I'm no thief myself. Thank you, and enjoy.
Bounty Hunter
By Rusty Dillingham
--Chapter Nine – Rebels--
People had already started ogling the bar where Fang the Sniper had made his mark. Though the fighting had taken place not twenty minutes earlier, the venomous tension in the air still hadn't disappeared. The smell of smoke from the men's man-killers still hung around, which was perhaps the reason everyone still didn't feel completely safe. Either that, or it was the continuous presence of the individuals Fang had been shooting at before the sun had set.
"Are y'hurt bad?" someone asked the hedgehog, who was sitting on a wooden seat with a rag pressed against his shooting arm.
"I'll be better once I find that bastard," he hissed. He hadn't been shot, but some of the debris that had blasted every which way when Fang had shot at the bar itself had sliced his fur, giving him a bad cut. Other than that, he was no worse for the wear. "I can't believe I let him get away."
The other hedgehog shrugged his shoulders. "Well, y'know, that was Fang the Sniper. You're probably lucky to even be sitting there."
There was no reply to that comment.
"Seriously. I mean, this is the guy who shot your pop."
"You think I don't know that!?" was the raspy response. "Damn him. I'm gonna find him and shoot him down with a cold, steady hand, just like how he killed my father."
The other hedgehog didn't answer.
"What?"
"Did he really kill your dad?"
The seated individual burned. "Yes!"
"Are you sure?"
"YES!"
"What did your dad do?"
The hedgehog blinked. "He—uh... I—er..."
"Do you... not know?" There was a collection of loud, mechanical whining sounds coming from somewhere outside, but they went ignored.
"Of course I know! He, uh..."
"Maybe he's the one who started the whole thing. Maybe Fang just shot him in self-defense."
The hedgehog stared up at the other with a look on his face that all but said he was going to hand him a body part in the next nanosecond.
"Er... Or not."
Out of the chair the shooter stood, hurtling the bloody rag into a garbage can next to the bartop. "Well, I'm not going to sit around here while he gets further and further away! Bastard's probably over in the friggin' Spring Yard or something by now. You guys got any extra clips?"
The bartender didn't like this idea one bit. "Hold up, buddy. Y'saw what that boy did to my bar. You gonna run off and try'n git yourself killed all over again? You were lucky to just come away with that little scratch on your arm."
"Don't you try to boss me around, Chip. I know what I'm doing. Doug, are you coming or not?"
The second hedgehog crossed his arms and looked away. "I ain't gettin' myself killed over nothin'. Fang the Sniper never done nothin' to me."
The first fumed. "Are you gonna give him the chance to?"
There was no reply.
"Fine, damn it!" The leader turned towards the bar's decrepit old door. "I guess it's up to me to take down the son of a—"
"Hold up! You're gonna go after this guy, and you don't even know if it was him."
"Quit trying to stop me. I'm going to make him eat lead."
"At least tell me this," said his friend. "What'd the guy who did it look like?"
The hedgehog paused. "I only know from what I heard. He had a hat, and boots, a funny-lookin' tail. Heard the sonofabitch was smiling when he did it."
"A lotta people out there wear stuff like that. Especially around here."
"Yeah, like who?"
"Like—"
They stopped when they realized the bar had new visitors, and the entire room went dead silent.
The three kangaroos stood line abreast, examining the bar's interior wordlessly, their eyes lingering on every inhabitant for seconds at a time. The one in the middle sniffed the air, and it wouldn't be hard for him to detect that all-too familiar scent of gunpowder. Smiley huffed through his nostrils, having never particularly liked the smell. He didn't know if he could say the same for the other two, but they were all so used to it by then that they themselves might have started carrying that distinctive scent on them everywhere they went. No wonder people didn't like them.
Speedy was silent. Shifty picked at the contents of one lanky ear. The trio's alpha male just smiled as he looked around the place some more, the gaze under the brim of the Stetson-style hat taking notice of not only the smoke but the small holes throughout the walls, as well as the tiny spent shell casings on the dirty wooden floor.
"Looks like y'all had yourselves a fight in here," he drawled, wide grin widening.
"You're very perceptive," the hedgehog said dryly.
"Might I inquire as to the details of this little melee?"
The first hedgehog just stared at the trio, unsure of what to make of them. They looked like professional trouble-makers, and he suddenly felt a great deal of his hardy adventurousness evaporate, moreso when he saw all the shooters on them. It seemed like Sand Hill was the prime location for men who liked carrying guns and liked using them more, and owning one was all a good person could do in order to survive in such a miserable place. There was nothing the authorities could do about it, either – at least not until a major colony popped up in it, but that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. "Who wants to know?"
Smiley didn't answer. He just stood inanimate, watching the room's occupants, all the while taking note of the heat the hedgehogs were packing. Stares from all corners were returned with as much to say.
"We're looking for a man," Speedy uttered after realizing his boss wasn't interested in speaking up. "Calls himself Fang the Sniper."
It was almost possible to visibly see the hedgehog's blood vessels freeze in place. "What do you want with him?"
"That's none of your business." The kangaroo's hand wasn't far from his gun. "Has he been here or not?"
The hedgehog glanced to his comrades. "He was here. He shot up the place. And I'm gonna head out after him. Bastard killed my father."
Smiley's grin swelled until it seemed to swallow his entire face, and the eyes of the room saw it.
Speedy didn't look impressed. "That breaks my heart."
"Your sympathy moves me deeply."
"What'd your dad do?" Shifty queried, genuinely curious.
"He, uh—"
Speedy's head lowered. "Do you not even know?"
"Of course I do!" the hedgehog hissed.
"Fang the Sniper probably never even met your dad. He doesn't do his hunting in shirt factories."
The slack-jawed hedgehog just stared blankly, mouth agape. "He did! Why the hell doesn't anybody believe me?!"
"I believe you," Shifty said.
"Well, I'm just thrilled to death to hear that."
"Actually, I'm just tryin' to make you feel better."
The hedgehog ground against his teeth so hard, they almost snapped.
Speedy was less amiable. "Any clue where he went?"
"Now why would I tell you that if I'm looking to kill him myself?"
"Guess not." Speedy looked marginally put-off by the reply. He turned his gaze to his boss.
Smiley just looked back, then studied everyone, from the young fellow opposite them, to the bartender, and all their friends. The pleasant look on his face deteriorated slightly. "Let me make you boys an offer."
The hedgehog stood there, glancing between the three kangaroos, the bartender, and his buddy.
The motions were swift and unexpected, and they brought with them amazing accuracy. Out came both of Smiley's semiautomatics, and a volley of blasts exploded into the room, echoing off the interior walls and rattling the atmosphere. The first hedgehog was knocked back all the way onto a table. The other one took a shot to the neck and collapsed awkwardly onto his side. Any screams were drowned out by the thunder of the guns, and both of them were dead before they knew what had hit them. Smiley stood frozen in the seconds that followed, until he slowly draped the weapons back within their leather holsters. Speedy and Shifty hadn't even flinched. They almost looked amused.
He turned his poisonous gaze to the bartender, whose head was only just barely visible above his bartop. "I trust our terms are fair enough for you."
It wasn't even fifteen minutes after that happened that the town had more trouble, and that trouble wasn't happy. Jagged the Hyena wasn't ever very happy in the first place, unless he were drinking, in which case it didn't take him long to enter a state that wasn't anything near happy. Now that he had a big, new airbike to jerk around with, though, things were looking up for him, but that didn't make him any more pleasant to be around when he strolled into the hole-in-the-wall's only gun store. He figured that it would be one of the more popular businesses in town, second only to the bullet-riddled bar down the street. He was halfway-right; there were two other men examining pieces of weaponry inside.
"Gimme the biggest, meanest shooter you've got," he grumbled to the bear sitting on an old wooden chair behind the glass cases showing off various man-killers of differing worth but of equal lethality. He'd decided that going after a fellow as dangerous as Fang the Sniper necessitated the need for some ugly machines of death, whatever the cost. Fang was obviously on the trail of some bad company, so Jagged knew he'd feel better with something that could deal with them easier than his pistol could.
"You gots any money?" said the big old boy in a way that told Jagged he might be dealing with someone who hadn't gotten past the second grade.
It took Jagged a few seconds to whip out his wallet and flash the credit card he used that pointed all necessary expenses on this little trip towards GUN's financial department.
The bear shook his head. "Ain't got nothin' that can take that."
"What!?" Jagged screeched.
"Ain't got nothin' that can ta—"
"I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID! Whaddya mean you can't take it!?"
"Ain't got nothin' that can take th—"
"DAMN IT, I KNOW THAT!! WHY NOT!?"
"I'unno," the bear told him with a shrug. "Never needed anything like that before."
Hissing and spitting to keep from tearing the man's head off, Jagged rustled through his wallet further, hoping he hadn't spent all of his last paycheck on booze. He recalled that Dry Horn had had a mean-looking shotgun not far from where he'd taken his last breaths – If only the hyena had been smart enough to grab that while he'd been there. "What'll five bucks get me?"
The man said nothing.
"Rrrgh!!" Jagged shuffled through the wallet more, praying he'd find something of worth inside its bleak, empty corners. He eventually found an extremely crumpled up ten dollar bill that he'd kept in the event of an emergency – specifically, when he'd really needed a drink – but that was the only thing of any monetary value. Everything else was stupid useless crap ranging from his insurance card to GUN's I.T. department phone number.
"Can give ya a box-a-bullets, but nothin' else. They're nine-millimeters."
Screw it. He'd take whatever he could get by this point. "Fine."
He forked over the money and took the heavy box into a hand. Damned thing must have weighed more than a walrus. He turned around towards the business' door, and... stopped. Jagged remembered that his semiautomatic didn't load by the round. It wasn't some old six-shooter -- it loaded by clips. Not only that, but his gun shot forty-fives. He looked at the gun in his holster, then at the box in his hand, then back at the gun, then back at the box. He stood there.
"FUCK!!"
The door suddenly swung open, and in stalked a short, irritable-looking lizard wearing a gaudy bone-white sombrero and equally-gaudy bandana over his face. Those were the first things Jagged noticed about him. The second was that the little guy was packing heat much like he was, and he looked pissed off enough to put that heat to use within the next minute or two. A pair of gleaming, silver-finished semiautomatics slept within brown leather holsters on the newcomer's gunbelt, and amidst the two clip belts criss-crossing across his torso, his shoulder was draped in a large white bandage. Jagged was silent, watching him and slowly realizing who it was.
Sombrero the Gila Monster marched right up to the counter, glaring thunderbolts at the entrepreneur sitting in the ratty old seat. "These guns you sold me ain't worth shit!"
"Why not?" was the question in a who the hell cares kind of way.
"You said the damn things were lucky! Well, they ain't! I just shot at some loser a little while ago, and I didn't hit him!"
"That's a damn shame."
"You know what? Screw you. I'm doing things the big way, 'cause I'm the fuckin' man. Gimme the biggest damn gun you got!"
"You gots any money?" asked the bear in the exact same tone and with the same sleepy-eyed look he'd used with Jagged moments earlier.
"Whaddya, stupid? Of course I've got money!" Sombrero was already fishing through his own wallet, which looked much like Jag's in that they both were official Dr. Eggman™-brand, complete with cartoony caricatures of the doctor himself. "Guy'd have to be a total dumbshit to walk around without any money these days. Y'act like I was born on a fuckin' farm, I—... What the friggin'— Where the hell— Oh shit. Don't tell me I spent it all at the casino just now. Shit. Damn it. Shit."
Jagged, the store owner, and the other customers watched as Sombrero stood wordlessly, the reptile glancing around and trying to figure out what exactly to do at this revelation. He hesitated, then held up a gloved finger. "I'll be back in a minute."
He exited, leaving everyone to share silent expressions. Ten seconds passed. There came a scream from the business directly next door, making the two other customers jump. It was followed by yelling, cursing, crying, more cursing, and then there was silence.
Sombrero reappeared a few moments later. He approached the counter again and slammed a large wad of bills onto its surface. "Here."
The bear's eyes slowly drifted to the cash, then eased back up to Sombrero's hidden face at a speed so slow Jagged wondered if the man were alright. Every ounce of the money disappeared into the store's old-fashioned cash register. Sombrero did not object.
"Whad'you wanna get?" the bear asked.
"Well—"
"Say," Jagged piped up. That bandage had gotten his attention, and he had a feeling he knew why it was there. "What happened to your shoulder?"
The outlaw stopped and turned to glare at Jagged fiercely.
"Why don't you mind your own business, scarface!?" Sombrero's line of sight returned to the guns. "Go fist yourself."
Jagged felt every muscle in his body twist into a knot, and he seriously weighed the pros and cons of unscrewing Sombrero's head and playing basketball with it.
"So," mumbled the bear to the scaly customer, "whad'you wanna get?"
"Well, where's the biggest damn gun you got? Oh, hey, I want that. Gimme that." The reptilian bandito was pointing at a shotgun one might expect was specially-sized for use by people the size of Australia.
Jagged's eyes bugged out of their sockets. "HEY, NO, WAIT-A-MINUTE, I WANTED THAT!"
"Well, you snooze, you lose, scarface." Sombrero didn't look at him.
The hyena's head whipped back and forth between Sombrero and the bear behind the counter, creating a very nice cross-breeze in the room. "WHAT THE HELL, I SAW THAT THING FIRST!"
"Shoulda said somethin'," said the bear.
"I DID say somethin'! I said I wanted the biggest, meanest shooter you got!"
The bear sat there. "Y'did?"
"Yes!"
Silence. "Y'sure?"
"YES!!"
More silence. "When wuzzat?"
A very loud huff was heard by all present.
"When I came IN HERE," Jag growled through clenched fangs.
"Y'sure?"
Red veins stretched into the whites of Jagged's eyes. It became thoroughly convincing that looks could kill.
"Y'gots any money?" asked the owner.
Jagged thought for a second, then looked at the box of bullets in his hand. His free fingers latched onto the fur on his head as his mouth spat every obscenity ever created by civilization.
"So is that thing buckshot or what?" Sombrero queried to the store owner while the establishment's other customers increased their distance from the flailing hyena.
"I'unno."
The lizard was incredulous. "What the hell do you mean, you don't know?"
"I'unno."
"Screw it, I'll take it anyway. I wanna kill me some big game."
"You gots any money?"
Sombrero stood there, ignoring Jag's continuing fit. "What?"
"That there gun is two thousand."
"TWO THOUSAND!" yelled the gila monster.
"Yep. Nice gun, that one."
"ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY!?" he shrieked even louder.
"I'unno."
"I JUST GAVE YOU LIKE A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!"
"Y'did?"
"OF COURSE I DID, YOU MORON!! YOU JUST PUT IT ALL INTO YOUR GODDAMN REGISTER!!"
"When wuzzat?"
Sombrero joined Jagged in his vulgar tirade.
The door to the gun shop flew open again, and a man – a rather unnotable-looking panda – stood in the doorway, holding a pistol. He wore a gold badge on his shirt, and it became more than evident to Jag in a split-second that the fellow was supposed to be the closest thing the town had to law enforcement. He didn't look like someone who would be all that good at the job, but there had to be someone. If only he had some friends with him, perhaps the town might not be too bad a place. But then all the deadbeats would have just made some other poor pisshole its club of operations. "Nobody move. Who's the mangy sonofabitch who just robbed Annie next door?"
The two obscene gunslingers stopped what they were doing, but Jagged was the only one who settled down. Sombrero obviously didn't take well to people who didn't mind their own beeswax. "Who the hell asked you!?"
Jagged started to wonder if he should get around to taking the wanted bandito down, but Sombrero was small-fry. The hell with him. If the local police could handle it, he wouldn't get his hands dirty with the funny little fellow. He was way too high on the food chain for that. And if he made a wrong move, Johnny Law might have tried to put a bullet in him, and he wasn't interested in having that happen.
"I'm gonna assume it was you," fumed the short arm of the law, keeping the pistol trained on the psycho lizard. "Now drop that gunbelt and keep your hands where I can see 'em. I just got done cleanin' up a real mess down at Chip's, and I'm not in the mood for somebody givin' me gusto."
The mad, bloodshot stare from under the brim of the bone-white sombrero could have frozen water. "I'm afraid I'm in a givin' mood tonight."
The panda could only stare back.
Sombrero drew so fast that Jag didn't get moving until the shot had been fired. The situation had spiraled down so quickly that he was caught totally off-guard. He'd figured the gila monster to be a talker before he did his killing, but the outlaw was probably so used to the horrible things he did that talking and taunting had become boring and cliché. Further evidence of his hard-earned proficiency lay in the fact that the lawman had had his gun trained on the bandito even before being shot at. If that bandage had anything to do with Fang, Jagged felt something inside him shrink. Even while he dropped his new box and lunged over a counter, he chastised himself for letting Sombrero screw around for the last few minutes doing whatever he'd pleased.
The lawman was falling back and clutching the side of his belly. Jag didn't have enough time to tell where the man had been hit, but maybe after he got down to business, he'd have the chance to make certain the guy was okay. With any luck he'd be wearing a bullet-proof vest under that shirt, but he heavily doubted it, considering the town's utter crappiness. Sombrero was lining up for another shot when the hyena hurriedly raised back up over the counter, drawing his sidearm and pointing it straight at the gila monster. "Drop that gun, asshole! Federal agent!"
He realized he may as well have painted a huge bullseye target onto his face, because that was all the reasoning Sombrero needed to whip around, a harried look in his wild eyes. BANG came a fast shot at Jag's skull, and the hyena dropped himself down below the counter again, unable to return the favor.
Another blast thundered into the room from the downed lawman. It must have missed Sombrero by what probably felt like a centimeter. The lizard ducked instinctively and pulled from its holster his second gun, and chaos ensued as he let loose a suppressive volley of lead at both his oppressors, shooting in two different directions at once while skittering backwards.
Jag was stuck where he was, feeling bullets snap past him and pound through the wooden walls above his head. He heard a crash, and looked up just in time to see the gila monster land outside, the crazy little bastard having just jumped through one of the store's big, wide glass windows. How Sombrero'd ever had the balls or strength to do something like that was beyond him, until he remembered the entire town was one gust of wind from falling apart entirely. The hyena burst up from where he was hiding, bolting towards the open door. "YOU LITTLE SONOFAWHORE, GET BACK H—"
Thunk went his big black boot into the lawman once he was outside, sending Jagged falling flat onto his face with an even louder crashing noise. "Oomffgh!"
Out of the corner of his eye he caught Sombrero dashing toward a white airbike – it seemed like everybody was using the damn things these days. Jagged pushed himself to his feet and started to race after him when the gila monster slowed dramatically, turned, and raised one of his silver semiautos at the hyena again.
"Shi--!!" Jag reacted quickly and pitched himself back toward the open door of the gunshop, and again his foot clobbered into the groaning panda. He sailed face-first onto the ground noisily for a second time as forty-five rounds crashed and ricocheted about above him, sending wood chips splattering everywhere, including on top of his furry frame. "Damnit!"
There was a pause in the bedlam, prompting him to his feet once again. A quick peek from behind the doorway showed the gila monster was already on top of his speedy vehicle and kicking it to life, and Jagged gripped his gun tighter. Oh hell no!
He took aim at the distant outlaw, but Sombrero was already roaring forward and away from the store by the time he was able to get a good bead on the fleeing fugitive. It only took a second for the lizard to disappear from sight behind a building, the loud whine of the airbike's engines evaporating further with every passing second. Jagged kicked the wall, the adrenaline in him still rushing through his veins. "Bastard!"
Damn it all to damnation and back. Jagged was sorely tempted to hit his own airbike and race after the little bastard, but the machine was getting too low on gasoline to fare well in an arduous chase across the Sand Hill desert. Sombrero was only worth five thousand dollars anyway, though he suspected that number would be increasing given what had just transpired. That still didn't make the effort worth it. But when he thought of Sombrero's connection to Dry Horn the Bison, who had just been wasted – most likely, anyway – by Fang the Sniper, Jag almost felt his head explode.
Sombrero had been here for a reason. It had to have something to do with Fang. He couldn't put the pieces together yet, but he felt a lot of his vigor come back. The trail wasn't cold yet.
Jagged re-entered the store, looking at the seated bear and wondering if he'd even tried to get into cover during the fight – Jag had been too pre-occupied to bother noticing. "Hey!"
"Hmm?"
"Thanks for the help, dickwad. It was really nice of you to sit there on your fat ass and not pick up one of these guns and shoot that crazy little fucker. I really appreciate that."
"Y'all welcome."
Jagged frothed. He started to check on the lawman, but suddenly his cell phone rang, prompting him to grind his teeth in frustration. He flipped it open and placed against his black ear, struggling to ignore the increasing crowd of people who wanted to gawk at the scene of the shootout. "What!?"
Blah-blah-blah what the hell are you doing sounded noisily through the phone.
"I'm riding the fucking merry-go-round at Carnival Island. What the hell do you think I'm doing!?"
Blah-blah give us an update.
"Uh, well, I'm in a little town in Sand Hill. I don't know the name of the place." Probably Assville, he thought. "I ran into a little, uh, trouble, and, uh—"
Jagged winced at the yelling that ensued through the little speaker. The town's closest thing to a doctor glanced up at him while helping the panda.
"I know, I know! I just sort of don't have any really good leads, but I think I'm gonna go check out a bar down the street."
Blah?
"Hey, bars and pubs are a great place for information. All the locals hang out there and feed off information to kickass heroes like me about what to do next on my adventure. Don't you play video games?"
The next words out of the tiny phone were so loud they might have cracked the glass to Sergeant Baker's window all the way back in Station Square.
"ALRIGHT, ALRIGHT! Look, I'll go down there, I'll find out where Fang the Sniper is, and then I'll go get him! It's that simple. Hell, I might even haul in another bad guy while I'm at it. I guaran-damn-tee I'll give you guys progress. You can count on me."
Thirty minutes later, Jagged lifted his pounding head from the bartop and swung his near-empty glass around, splashing what little contents were left onto the irritable-looking regular sitting on the stool next to him. "You're my besshtest friend in the whole fuggin' world. You know that?"
The man glared at him and said nothing.
"I meaffllptbh." Jagged swung it again violently, fighting the slur that hindered his masterful and eloquent observations. "EVERYBODY's an assh-hole to me. Nobody wantsh to make friendsh with me. But you," and he leaned in closer to the man, "youshflgh—you're a speshul woman. Nice 'n' quiet, jus' like they should be. All you need iz a dress and a wig. Then you can getcher assh back in the kitchen and get me a beer."
Everyone else in the bar was silent and staring at him.
Jagged turned in the other direction, glaring at nothing in particular. "Wa's your problem? I wish alla you would just... shut the fug up. 'N go fist yourselves. Like that fuggin' monkey, or... whatever he was said. Th' guy with the funny hat an' the thing over his face. He'sh a funny guy. An' I let'im get away. 'Cause I'm an assh-hole." His head dipped downwards. "Nobody wantsh to be my friend. Not even the funny guy. He jus' tried to shoot me in'th'head. An' then I got yelled at by my fuggin' dickhead bossh. 'Cause I gotta go find that other guy... Fuggin'... Tooth, or whatever hish name izz an' I keep on fuggin' up."
He stopped waving his glass around and slammed it back down on the bartop. "I hate alla you so fuggin' much. Thish fuggin' town can kissh my rebel butt. I wouldn't date any-a-you if you were the last fuggin' woman on earth. If I wush president of this piece-of-shit commie country, and I had shum nucular launch codes, I'd turn your fuggin' assh-holes into glassh. Thash how much I hate you 'n' yer refusal to take my fuggin' credit carrrghgh." Thud went his head against the bartop.
The bartender was watching him. "Y'all say you're lookin' for Fang the Sniper?"
Jagged looked up at the man, eyes red and tired. "Who the fuggin' crap is Fang the Sniper?"
"If you're after that fella, are you expectin' by chance to run into some kangaroos along the way?"
"What the fug is a kangaroo? Some kinda fuggin' giraffe?" Thump-thump-thump went his forehead. "Oh man. I am sho fugged up right now."
"Them fellas was here not more than an hour ago," the bartender told him. "They shot up the place and gave a few-a-my regulars an early dirtnap. Seemed to take a mighty interest in Fang the Sniper."
"I don't give a shit." Jagged's aching skull collapsed onto the bartop again.
"They wanted to know where he was headed. He was after some fella too, and they'd both been here earlier. I reckon all of them boys are headed north, 'cause that's where that one other fella was movin'."
"Lemme alone."
"Not a whole lot worth seein' north of here, though. Just lots of desert 'n' mountains. Not much water, either. I'd be mighty grateful if you went out there and put 'em all down. We got enough trouble around here without men like them—"
"SHUT UP!" Jagged yelled, and the bartender was silenced.
After a while, he eventually got enough alcohol out of his brain to realize he'd better get moving. Telling the bartender to put his expenses on 'his tab,' despite the fact he didn't have one and he'd never set foot in this dump again, the hyena was soon off the old, blood-stained stool and making his way outside, where he'd parked Dry Horn's old airbike. Jagged stumbled past people giving him funny looks (a thing he was quite used to by this stage in his life), teetered at the edge of the bar's wooden porch haphazardly, stumbled backwards, teetered again, then hurried down the two or three steps far too quickly and was rewarded with a face full of sand.
"Mmfgh."
When he found the will to get up, he plodded over to the inanimate airbike, tripping four times on the way there, despite how it was only about ten feet from the bar's entrance. Once the five minutes required to get there had passed, he eased into the machine's seat, realized he was sitting backwards, and then turned himself around. The problem with this was that he'd actually gotten it right the first time, and now he really was sitting backwards. He took out his recently-acquired map of Sand Hill and unfolded it frustratedly before examining its content, holding it upside-down the whole time.
"North, huh... North... North sucks. Why couldn't it be... uh... what the hell elshe is there? Uh... Shouth-north?"
There was nothing of interest on the map in that direction that he could see, but he had to go. It had to be done. Jagged began to fold the map back up, but found it to be an exceedingly difficult task. He crumpled it up into a ball and shoved it into the airbike's storage compartment, then reached for where he thought the handlebars were and fell forward as a result because he was still sitting backwards on the vehicle. "Damnit. You... jerkwad. I'll kick your fuggin' ass."
Slowly he maneuvered back around and faced the right direction. The machine roared to life and rose into the air slightly. Jagged flashed the rock-and-roll hand gesture to strangers watching him suspiciously. "Gonna catch me a BAD GUY, BABY."
He nicked the throttle, and the airbike screamed forward, sending itself and rider crashing through the wooden outside walls of the bar and into the interior loudly, hurtling wood, dirt, dust, and termites flying in a million different directions.
"Ow."