[center][hider=Concerning:][@DepressedSoviet][@Fyre Unholy][@TemplarKnight07][/hider][/center]One by one Max placed the pints on a plastic cafeteria tray, the same kind the less skilled waitresses used at Oktoberfest. The pour was perfect, with just enough head to make the beer creamy on the tongue.

"[i]Rindsrouladen[/i] and red sauerkraut," he said over his shoulder. "Or if you don't want meat, I've shipped in a big wheel of [i]raclette[/i]. I'll melt you a platter."

Electricity hadn't worked in this place in over a decade, but Max never, [i]never[/i], let the oil tanks run dry. They kept people warm, and more importantly they fueled the stove and ovens. When people came to the Zone with get-rich-quick schemes, they always gravitated toward treasure-hunting, sifting through the mud for grandma's jewels; or selling truckloads of contraband iron to some fence somewhere. People were not so quick to imagine a man could make a fortune off simple homely comforts like a nice grilled beef or cheese melted over gherkins. But that's how it had turned out for a lucky few who offered these hard people the luxuries they thought they were leaving behind. So Max doted on his kitchen, having rigged a few refrigerators to a gas generator, and made sure that something always smelled good.

Still, meat was expensive, both to buy and to keep. He sold more pickled goods than anything: sauerkraut and plump pink eggs, in sweet brines or sour ones. He made it fresh when he could, but tinned food could be sold at a huge markup too, to the people embarking on long, hard expeditions.

When Max turned to deliver the beers to the Aussie, and watched that man return to his table, he noticed the newbie too. He didn't need to watch his hands as he counted the money; he felt the ridges on the edges of the coins, and besides, he knew Roach was good for it. Anyway, the kid looked out of breath, and he wasn't well-armed at all. Maybe he'd been running from that gunshot?

"No trouble, now," Max mumbled to himself, maybe loudly enough for others to hear. He didn't want some vengeance-seeking Clint Eastwood sauntering into the bar, looking to cash in whatever price was on Andy's head.[hr][hr][hr][center][i][color=#785D62]M[/color][color=#7E6566]e[/color][color=#856D6A]a[/color][color=#8B756E]n[/color][color=#927D72]w[/color][color=#988576]h[/color][color=#9F8E7A]i[/color][color=#A78E7B]l[/color][color=#AF8F7D]e[/color][color=#B88F7F].[/color][color=#C09081].[/color][color=#C89083].[/color][/i][/center][hr][hr][hr][center][hider=Concerning:][@Xandrya][/hider][/center]"Normally I wouldn't forgive a shot in the balls like this," Marcel explained as he led the girl into the building. If they didn't know so well that it was an ammo factory then maybe they could have mistaken it for a hangar, with how high the ceiling hung, and how wide apart the walls stood. The machinery, if they did not know so keenly that it once had stamped serial numbers into copper casings, and measured out precise loads of gunpowder, could have been riveters for airplane wings or welders for cockpit doors. Such was the nature of such lonely machines, their manuals rotted and their faces rusted over.

"But we need those bullets. So what I'll do is this, baby: I'll place the same order, but deduct money for what they owe me. Give them one chance, just one, to pay penance." In other words he'd pay less than he'd receive, and at the end, the two trading partners would be equal; he'd been scammed and he'd scam them right back. Then bygones would be bygones. "And I'll pay you the difference. Because you're our negotiator, and they seem to like you as much as I do. Make sense?"

The guy looked relaxed, but with so many gun-toting bandits around, did she really have much choice? She hadn't ever risked Marcel's wrath before; she didn't know, not with a guarantee, whether she could turn him down.