Hello again ladies and gentlemen, and welcome back tot he show. Now that I'm completely and utterly snowed in, and I'm sure many of you are too, I figured now was as good a time as any to give you the next instalment of the story. In this chapter, stuff and things happen, and there are characters. Want more, you'll have to read it for yourself. So enjoy everyone!
"Awww, come on, Miss M. I can make one teeensy-tiny run to pick up a few bottles of giggle juice, no prooooblem." Rocky pleaded, leaning against the bar of the Lackadaisy speakeasy, a look of pure manipulative innocence on his face. He pushed his blue wide-brimmed hat back on his head with the thumb of his right hand and struck a confident posture. "When have I ever let you down, madam?" On a nearby barstool, Mitzi, the club's owner, massaged the bridge of her nose with her right hand.
"Honey...because I like you, I'm not going to entertain an answer to that question..." She said, her voice tinging with a sweet southern accent. "All things considered, I'd rather send Viktor." Rocky gave an exaggerated hurt expression and looked over at the tall, gruff bartender.
"Viktor?" The musician-turned-bootlegger questioned. "It's just a little drive down to the local graveyard to pick up the spirits interred in a mausoleum and chauffer them back here. Why would you wanna send him?" He shot Viktor an innocent grin. "No offense intended, of course." The mountainous one-eyed orange cat behind the bar slammed the shot glass he was cleaning onto the counter with a thud that attracted the attention of everyone in the speakeasy.
"Maybe because I no come back looking like mashed potato." He growled in a thick eastern European accent. "Maybe because I can do job without dying."
"Ha!" Rocky laughed. "Firstly, I'm as resilient as a rubber ball. Secondly, I have yet to die. Thirdmost...wait, was there a third thing?"
"Ughhh..." Viktor groaned irritably.
"Besides..." Rocky continued, snagging an unaware Freckle as he walked by and holding him in place with an arm about his relative's neck. "If I run into a tight spot, my dear cousin here is more than enough of a match for whoever decides to hop in the ring."
"Please don't volunteer me for things..." Freckle muttered nervously.
"I'll go!" Ivy piped in, overhearing the conversation, and certainly not wanting to be left out of another adventure.
"I would prefer you not." Viktor grumbled, giving the 19 year old girl a stern glower.
"Yeah, well somebody has to drive." The young lady retorted, hopping up onto a barstool, the beaded tassels of her flapper dress jingling with the sudden movement. "And I don't think anyone here trusts Rocky enough to do that." Everyone at the bar, including their regular patrons, murmured in agreement.
"I can drive!" Rocky argued. He felt all eyes on him and his expression fell. "...with proper supervision."
"Can she drive?" Calvin, aka Freckle asked in a low voice. Mitzi placed her face in her palm and heaved a sigh.
"Alright, go. Just please don't completely destroy the car this time."
"You got it!" Rocky chirped.
"No problem!" Ivy said at the same time.
"We'll try." Freckle said nervously. With that, the trio of bumbling bootleggers hightailed it out of the speakeasy.
"Why do those three always give me a bad feeling in the pit of my pocketbook?" Mitzi groaned.
"Maybe because they are...erm...not smart." Viktor offered.
...
The black sedan stopped outside of the large, swanky-looking hotel, and Drake stared at the building. The sign read "Maribel Hotel". The note, tucked inside the stack of money he'd been given had specifically named this place. Penned below the name of the business was the words 'Ask for Sweet'. Frost thought over the information he had, putting the pieces together. This Sweet was likely the boss, or at least a lieutenant in some racket going on in the city. The headquarters was likely in this hotel, or at least the boss had a room here he used as an office, not that dissimilar from the used furniture store back in Chicago.
He scanned the edifice of the opulent art deco building, planning for all eventualities. The office suite would likely be on the top floor. Probably guarded by as many as four or five of the gang's most loyal guys. There would likely be a guard in the lobby too, especially if the hotel itself was the headquarters for the syndicate's operations. Not that Drake was anticipating a fight, but one could never be too careful. One should always be polite, but have a plan on how to kill every single person in the room. He took a swig from the bottle, just for good measure.
Frost walked into the lobby of The Maribel and took a cursory look around. There were only two people in the lobby this late at night. One was a middle-aged but shapely gal with a white coat, oddly wearing a white fur coat, all over a light blue dress. Drake had a passing thought that she looked like a snow queen out of a fairy book. The other was a younger fellow, about 20, wearing a grey suit and a flat cap. He was reading a newspaper as he sat on a sofa in the center of the palatial lobby. Drake stepped over to the front desk and stood with a blank expression as the night manager approached.
"Do you have a reservation, sir?" The slim yellow-tan cat in the red suit asked.
"I was told I could find Mr. Sweet here." Drake stated. He noticed the very subtle change in the manager's countenance.
"Sweet...Sweet..." The cat muttered, searching the names on a roster. "I'm...sorry sir, I don't seem to have a Sweet here at the moment."
"You are a good front." Frost said in a monotone. "But I was told by a friend of Mr. Sweet...in Chicago...to come see him. He is expecting me."
"Expecting you..." The night manager repeated, already getting the heebie jeebies from this one. He was certainly the sort that Mr. Sweet would be expecting after nightfall, all right.
"Yes." The assassin said. He blinked. The manager nodded, and picked up the telephone receiver. He punched in a room number.
"Ah yes...Mister Sweet please." He stared right at Drake as he spoke, and Frost stared right back. The manager looked away first. "Good evening. Front Desk, Mister Sweet. I have a gentleman here who has informed me that you are expecting him. Uh-huh. Yessir." He looked back to the black-clad gunman. "And what is your name sir?"
"Frost."
"Frost, sir. Yessir. Very well sir. I will send him up." The manager hung up the phone. "Take the elevator to the top floor, sir. Take a right and go to the end of the hall, the large double doors. The gentleman there will take you in." Without a word, Drake turned and walked away from the desk, and toward the elevator.
The gilded doors of the lift opened and Frost stepped out into the hallway, first scanning both directions. He turned right and walked toward the double mahogany doors at the end of the corridor, where a tall, broad-shouldered grey cat wearing a black suit and tie stood to the right of the door, his eyes locked on the newcomer, his right hand tucked slightly inside his jacket. Drake stopped just short of the door and its guard.
"That will not be necessary." He said in a low voice. "Mister Sweet is expecting me." The door guard frowned.
"Yeah, well be that as it may, I'll need your weapons before I let you in." He stated. Frost slowly pulled open his jacket to reveal the two 1911's in the broad leather shoulder rig.
"These weapons?" He asked. "And if I refuse…" The cat at the door jammed his hand into his jacket, but before he could draw his silver 1911 from its holster, Frost had already drown both of his and had them aimed at the guard's face. The tall doorman froze, his pistol half-out. He cocked up an eyebrow.
"And what do you think you're gonna do now, pal?" He asked disappointedly. Drake stared at him for a tense moment, thumbed up his safeties, spun the pistols grip-forward and handed them to the guard.
"Nothing." He replied calmly. "This was simply a lesson. For both of us." The large grey cat cautiously replaced his pistol in its holster and took the twin automatics from the slender gunman.
"Ah yeah?" He asked. "And what did I learn?"
"That I could have killed you. I didn't."
"Okay...I'll buy that. And what did you learn?" The guard asked, carefully placing Drake's pistols in a drawer behind him.
"That the security here is not disgraceful." Frost answered. Without waiting to be let in, he stepped forward and tuned the knob on one of the doors. He paused, his head turning as his eyes skipped from one metal ventilation duct to the next at the top of the wall. He pointed boredly at a vent. "Except that someone could crawl through that and kill your boss."
"Shit fella...really?" The doorman exclaimed, now eyeing the potential weak point in the security.
"I would." Frost muttered, and walked through the door. Finding himself in a suite of rooms, he turned to an open door that issued forth the smell of tobacco. The old Indian saying always rang true...Follow the cigar smoke, find the fat man there. He stood in the doorway, and looked for a moment at the barrel-chested light brown cat sitting at the desk in the room. Wearing a grey suit, he had a marigold flower pinned to the lapel. The same as the guard had on his suit. No doubt a symbol used by the gang. Drake knocked on the door.
"Yeah? Who's that?" The cat asked, looking up from his desk with an air and tone of authority. He spotted Frost standing in the doorway. "Wellll, what are you waiting for? Come in." Drake silently stepped into the room and stood before the desk.
"Mister Sweet?" He asked.
"I am, I am..." The crime boss said, his tone betraying his curiosity. "And you, Mister tall dark and gruesome must be the hatchetman from Chicago." Frost said nothing. "Not much for conversation, are you? Hell, you kind of remind me of Mordecai. I already got a Mordecai, and I don't need another." He took a puff from his cigar. "But a friend of mine up in Chicago says you're the best there is. Any truth to that?"
"I do my job precisely as contracted, sir." Drake replied stoically. "My previous employer was satisfied with my results." The iciness of the answer made Sweet sit back slightly in his large leather chair. Mordecai Heller was something, but this cat was something else...something darker.
"Yeah...he said something of the sort. In fact, I've been hearing all kinds of stories about you. Clearing out a whole great big warehouse full of armed guards...something about you boarding a rumrunning ship and turning it into the Goddamned Marie Celeste. Blowing away some attorney general with a chopper in broad daylight." Drake didn't say a word. Nothing about him showed any emotion at the accounts. "You or somebody like you helped rob a bank in Indiana two years back, or so they say." Sweet continued. "Which wouldn't mean a thing to me except that you did it with a BAR and practically disassembled two sheriff's cars. Was that you?"
"Whoever it was was likely contracted to be the triggerman for the heist." Frost stated. "They say he killed two deputy sheriffs and a bank cop." He said no more and simply stared at Mister Sweet.
"That was Floyd's job...wasn't it?"
"If you say so, sir." Frost stated.
"You...you are sure a cut above what we usually see around here." Sweet said, and puffed at his cigar. "And you need work and a place to cool off, huh? Your uh...old boss tell you what we have going on down here?"
"Rival business." Drake replied. "Operating on your ground. Reducing profits. You need them subtracted from the equation."
"Hell...you even kind of sound like Mordecai." Sweet said with a slight grin. "If he had a evil twin or somethin'"
"Who sounds like myself, Mister Sweet?" A black tuxedo cat wearing a dark suit and long coat, with eyeglasses perched upon his nose inquired, entering the room. As he passed by Frost, the hired gun noticed the newcomer literally staring him up and down from the side of his eye.
"Haha, Mordecai Heller. I was just talking about you." Sweet greeted. "I was just reviewing this gentleman's application." The slender bookish cat moved to stand behind the desk, to the right of his boss, where his eyes continued to move up and down Frost. Finally, his gaze stopped on Frost's right hand. Mordecai's left eyebrow arched.
"You do realize sir, that this applicant has a weapon...likely a small firearm hidden in his right sleeve. Probably mounted to some sort of system designed to deploy it quickly..." He pushed his glasses up on his face. Sweet stared at Drake for a moment. The assassin smirked for the first time in days.
"Very observant, Mister Heller." He retorted in a dry tone. "I was just admiring the large automatic pistol hidden under your left arm." He cocked his head. "You don't have it counterbalanced with magazines on the other side. How odd."
"I don't miss." Heller stated.
"We all miss." Frost shot back. "Or none of us would have survived this long." Mordecai narrowed his green eyes.
"Indeed."
"Are you two finished, or are you gonna start pissing on my furniture?" Sweet growled. "You guys professionals or not?"
"Apologies, Mister Sweet." Mordecai said. Drake dipped his head slowly down then up.
"Alright." Sweet nodded. "Now since you just joined the meeting Mister Heller, allow me to fill you in. This is Mister Frost...or just Frost. I never extrapolated more than that, and frankly I don't care. Fact is, Frost here just arrived from Chicago. An acquaintance of an acquaintance you know? He's done some...how do I say it...quality work up there. Maybe he's just what we need to deal with our little problem with those erm...Lackadaisy vagabonds." At that, Heller's eyebrows shot up a little.
"I'm certain we do not need the services of someone like him, sir." The tuxedo cat advised in a low voice. "Myself...along with the Savoys are more than enough to handle that rabble. A...loose cannon like this Frost would only serve to attract unwanted attention..."
"Those rats are already attracting unwanted attention!" Mister Sweet exclaimed. "They'll wreck the entire operation if we don't nip this in the bud. That's why Frost here is gonna...eheheheh...put them on ice. Isn't that right, son?" The crime boss stared at Drake with a sinister grin.
"A room." The gunman spoke in a voice as cold as his name. "Ammunition at my request. My choice of drink from your supply. And three hundred dollars a week."
"Three...hundred?" Sweet choked out. "Are you killing people or driving a truck? If you're as good as they say, I'd pay three hundred a day."
"Three hundred a week will suffice...alongside my other requests." Frost replied stoically. "At the conclusion of my services, I require one thousand upon the termination of my contract." Sweet regarded the gunfighter suspiciously.
"Now to be clear, if you are...contracted to me, you answer to me, and you rub out whoever I tell you to rub out."
"That is the nature of my services, sir." Drake replied. Sweet shot a glance to Mordecai, who gave his boss a dissatisfied look and a slight shake of his head.
"And you handle this thing the way I tell you to." Sweet added. "This is Saint Louis, Frost. Saint Louis is not Chicago. We don't cut our rivals up with machine guns on a crowded street here. We handle things...a little more civilized here."
"You mean in the dark." Frost clarified. Sweet smirked.
"Exactly. Now that all that is sorted out, and if you agree to the terms, consider yourself hired." Sweet stated. Heller's eyes widened a little in obvious shock. "You can have your pick of rooms here at the Maribel..."
"No." Drake interjected. "Too visible. Nothing should tie me to you. I will find my own board."
"Alright...have it your way." Sweet nodded. "You'll work with Mordecai here and the Savoys, and you'll report to Heller." Drake sent a curt nod toward the Marigold's hatchetman. "Now it's getting late. If you'd like to go down to the club and have a drink..." He pulled a pair of twenties from his pocket and slid them across the desk. "It's on me, of course. Heller, go with him. Make sure our new contractor here has everything he wants." Mordecai let out an audible sigh.
"Yes sir." He ceded, and stepped to the door to the office. "Well, come along Frost." The two of them left the office, Drake following behind Mordecai as he was led back to the main hallway. Drake retrieved his pistols from the guard, and was led toward the elevators. As they walked, Frost processed his new handler.
Heller was highly intelligent, that much was obvious from the start. What's more, Frost reasoned, most people in his position tended to hide at least some of their analytical ability and observational skills like a cardcheat would hide an ace or a gunfighter a derringer. Not Heller. He had called out Frost in front of Mister Sweet, and what's more, had been the only person to date to notice the rig Drake wore on his arm when circumstances required him to be otherwise disarmed. To him, this made Mordecai Heller a very dangerous actor. Of course his speed and accuracy with the pistol he had concealed beneath his coat yet remained to be seen, Drake had no doubts Heller was possessive of at least a respectable ability with arms. This one, he would watch...
"Since we're already up here, I had better introduce you to the rest of your new coworkers..." Mordecai said, sounding a little disappointed. "Right this way, and I hope you aren't the kind who believes in curses." Frost raised an eyebrow as the tall tuxedo cat rapped on an ornate door. A few moments later, it swung open, and the smell of liquor, smoke, spicy food and other strange odors wafted out into the hallway.
"Ohh...hello there Cher." A smoky feminine voice greeted in a French-Cajun accent, which Drake recognized from his short stint in that part of the world. "What brings you around this time of evenin' praytell?" Frost leaned slightly over to peer over Mordecai's shoulder. At the door was a white-coated cat with curly black hair cascading wildly down onto her shoulders. She was wearing an odd outfit of white linen pants tied with a rope, a white teeshirt, and a white linen suit jacket. A necklace of what looked like some kind of sharp teeth, and wooden and glass beads hung down her chest. She swished her tail.
"I came to introduce a new...ahem...employee...who will be working with us...at least for the time being." The lady at the door looked past Heller and her yellow eyes slowly moved up and down Frost.
"Mmm, a new face, Cher? Tre Bon I had a feelin' things were about to get excitin'." She said in a lazy but confident tone. "Do come in and join the festivities." Heller wrinkled his nose.
"Fine, but I am not taking part in any of your silly rituals." He stated, and Led Frost into the suite. Inside, Drake gave a quick glance about the large hotel room. It was obvious from the state of the place, and the unusual decor that this Creole dame and whoever else was squatting here had done their utmost to turn the once opulent room into a scale model of some shack in the bayou. String lights, candles, alligator heads, chicken feet...it was all he needed to see. The pile of drying herbs on a dresser only hammered it home as to the type of people he was going to be working with. The door was shut.
"And just who is our mm...new ami?" The room's occupant cooed, walking up to Drake with a cocky smirk.
"This is Frost. Apparently, he is a fabled gunfighter from Chicago. Frost, this is Serafine Savoy."
"Fabled gunfighter. Hoohoo, so Mister Sweet done hired a cleaner now, did he?" Serafine teased.
"Miss Savoy." Frost greeted coldly, tipping his fedora. Savoy stared into his eyes for a few moments, her smile slowly disappearing. She licked her lips.
"Well...aren't you a...real interesting soul, cher..." She said in a low voice. "Tell me Frost...what do you know about Papa Legba?" Drake blinked boredly.
"I know voodoo only works...if you believe in it." He replied in his usual monotone. Serafine's eyes widened for a brief moment.
"Oh does it now, mon petit ami sombre?" She cooed, her eyes locked on his with a look that was half-enticed and half-frightened. She had dealt with violent characters and hardened killers so many times before, but this mysterious soul was something else. She saw something in his eyes...or rather she saw nothing. Everyone had a certain joi de vivre, a spark of life, whether they were some goody two shoes or a consummate pirate. Everybody's eyes screamed "live!" in poetic lyrics, crimson phrases or gasps of desperation. Not Frost's. All she saw in his sickly yellow eyes was an emptiness, a loneliness and a detachment from life that made her think of corpses with their pale eyes staring blankly into the void. It felt like she was dancing with the devil, and Serafine Savoy wasn't about to balk. A tall, well-built white male cat wearing only grey trousers came out of a room in the suite and stopped, watching the exchange curiously. Frost was not in the least bit frightened or entertained by the strange lady's antics.
"No." he simply said. Serafine cocked her head slightly.
"So what do you believe in, Monsieur le croque-mitaine?" Drake tensed his jaw. Not that he showed it outwardly, but he was becoming perturbed at the incessant preachiness of this southern-fried little strumpet.
"Nothing." He replied. Serafine stepped back and licked her lower lip.
"Nico...brother a' mine, be a doll an' fetch this guy a drink." She narrowed her eyes and looked toward the taller male cat. "A cock...tail, frere." Nico smirked, and poured a drink from a trio of decanters as Serafine glanced back up at Drake.
"A toast..." she offered, taking two glasses in hand and giving one to Frost. "...to new faces, and protection from evil, eh chere?" She raised the glass and took a drink.
"Frost..." Heller began, but Drake took half his glass in one swig. He immediately tasted the metallic tang of blood. He boredly lifted the glass and stared at the reddish-brown concoction. "Yeah...you know you just drank blood, right?" Mordecai added. Drake smacked his lips a couple of times and then turned up the glass of brandy, peppers and blood and drained it. Now three sets of eyes were locked on him.
"Yeah, if this was supposed to make me go away or something..." He said coolly, "...it didn't work." He sat the glass down on a nearby table. Drake was done dealing with these low-level crooks trying to intimidate and socialize him. He stared at all three of the Marigold gang in turn before speaking again, in a low, emotionless voice that held all of them hostage until he was finished. "Listen to me. I'm here to do a job. I am going to do that job. Then I will leave. No more. No less. You have any problem with that, take it up with your boss. Miss Savoy." He tipped his hat, then looked to her brother. "Mister Savoy. Thank you for the drink. I am going to find a room to let. I will call with instructions on how to find me. Good night." With that, he walked out of the room, letting the door close behind him with a resounding jar.
"That there is un tough customer." Nico remarked, coming to stand with his sister and Heller. "And I can spot them chose sur."
"Well I am going to see what I can find out about this Frost." Mordecai said suspiciously. "Regardless of what Mister Sweet says, I believe he may be a liability to our operations." Heller raised an eyebrow as he glanced over at Serafine, who was staring at the door of the room as if it were some strange creature. The feeling of impending doom she had gotten from the assassin was still gnawing at the back of her mind. "And your professional thoughts?" He asked sarcastically. She bit her lower lip softly.
"Je ne sais pas..." She muttered. "That one spooked me a little bit, cher." Mordecai rolled his eyes.
"Well perhaps you should keep your spirits and hexes to yourself." He advised.
...
Drake pulled into the small dirt and gravel lot beside the two-story apartment building at 2:10 in the morning. He had spied the 'Room to let' sign in the downstairs window as he passed. The boarding house looked a little run-down, and it was quite well off the beaten track, just down from a meat-packing facility, and next to a run-down and derelict wooden storehouse. A set of sidings for some railroad was across the road. The only lighting on the street in fact came from a pair of red electrical lights on the track signal pole, and a few red lanterns hanging from some of the box cars. He reasoned that this was an acceptable place to live for the time being. He got out of the car and walked up to the door marked "Office". With his right fist, he began thumping heavily and steadily on the solid wooden door. After a little while, a light came on in the window, and a gruff voice called out.
"Hollld it!" The male voice yelled. "Shit! Wha...th' blazes Hell...goddamn you...goddamn you...god…" The door was thrown open to reveal a hunched over and quite elderly cat wearing pajamas and a corduroy jacket. "Eh...wha...what the Hell do you want?!" Frost just started at him a moment and blinked.
"What do you think I want you mean old bastard...I want a fucking room." He stated in his usual low tone. The old owner scowled and shook his head.
"Urrghhh…time of nighhht...damned punk kids...goddamn daylights...it's thirty dollars a month, in advance." At that, Drake pulled a hundred-dollar bill and reached it to the old timer between his first two fingers. Grandpa took the note, looked it over and made a few grunts of acceptance. He grabbed a key on brass ring and handed it to the late caller. "Second floor. End of the hall. On the left. It's a got...damned prison cell, but it's got a bed and a shitter. You rent hookers, keep it down. Ugh…uh…don't punch...no...damn holes in my walls. Got it?"
"Yeah." Drake answered. "Upstairs. End of hall. Let me know when that money runs out. I'll give you more. You don't know me while I'm here. Let me alone, old-timer." The old cat nodded.
"Eh...yeah...I didn't see you or nothin' else goddamnit." The owner agreed. "Now let me sleep you shitheel. It's two in the pissin' morning!" With that, he slammed the door, and Frost went to take his belonging to his new quarters. This involved taking first his valise and his carpetbag up to the second floor. He found his room easily and went inside. It was a small, ten-by-ten room with a water closet off to the side containing a bathtub and a head. The plaster on the ceiling was cracking, and the faded and peeling green wallpaper looked like it had been hung about the time The Titanic had sunk. A small narrow bed was pushed against the far wall, and the room had a wooden writing desk and a single wooden chair. A bare bulb hung from the ceiling by its wire, providing a modicum of illumination to the space. It would do.
Next, he went back to his sedan and unstrapped the huge trunk from the back bumper rack. Trunk and contents weighed almost two hundred pounds, but Frost simply wrestled it to the ground, and dragged it into the building, and up the stairs. The thumping and bumping of the heavy trunk on the wooden stairs awakened two of the building's residents, who curiously peeked out of their doors at the darkly-clad figure solemnly dragging the large box down the hallway. Assuming he probably had a dismembered body inside the wooden and leather trunk, they retreated back into their own apartments and locked their doors.
Inside his new lodgings, Drake locked his door and opened the trunk. mounted on the inside of the lid was another pair of Colt Government .45's, two Colt Official Police .38 revolvers, a brace of Colt 1903 pocket hammerless autos in .32ACP, and a duet of .25 caliber Baby Brownings with Bakelite grips. He drew out a green glass bottle wrapped in newspaper, popped the cork out and took several swallows of the apple and spice-infused moonshine inside. He sat the bottle on the floor and withdrew all the parts necessary to assemble a Thompson Submachine Gun and sat them on the bed. In less than a minute, he had expertly wiped each part with an oily rag and slid, snapped and locked everything into place. Frost pulled a 50 round drum from the trunk and slid it into the receiver of the weapon before leaning it up against the wall by the head of the bed.
The rest could wait, he reasoned. The BAR, the shotgun, his spare ammunition and the 1919 could stay in the locked car for now. If he were to be starting work tomorrow, a short rest would be necessary. He took off his long black trench coat, his bowtie and his fedora and placed them neatly on the table in the room. Then he picked up the bottle, took a couple more swigs of the strong beverage inside, sat it down, checked his pistols once more for the night, placing them back in his overbuilt shoulder rig. He lay down on the bed, on top of the grey wool blanket, reached down, grabbed the bottle, and continued to drink, staring at the ceiling until sleep overtook him.
There's officially a new player in town, and he definitely makes the others look like amateurs. He has quite the impressive 1920's arsenal to be sure. Although he does seem to have a little bit of a drinking problem, doesn't he? What do you think so far? Love it? Hate it? The walls of your domicile caked with the lingering curses of me name? Let me know in the reviews. You know us Youtubers...we live for the comments section. I'll try to have the next chapter up in a few days, the lord willing and the creek don't rise. So until then, keep it locked in right here, ladies and gentlemen. Until our next instalment, this concludes out broadcast day.