[i][b]Elsewhere in Sol City...[/b][/i]

The metal and the word from the street were heavy at the 501 Club on Tuesday Night. The clamor of conversation rose and fell against the sound of Slayer and old Metallica from a playlist stolen from a long broken jukebox that still sat derelict in one corner serving as a makeshift table for half-empty bottles, sweating glasses and ash trays. It was crowded, not because it was Tuesday, but because that was just the way it always was and the owners didn’t need silly gimmicks to attract their dedicated clientele. Members of the Visigoths 1% gang ruled most of the floor and the one pool table that still had enough balls and sticks to keep a game flowing. A few old hands of the Dellesantos Crew could be seen keeping to themselves around a table to the back. In decades past, they never would have set foot in Visigoth territory without a deathwish, but times changed and for the more seasoned residents of Sol’s underground, it was a lot less trouble to just have a drink, get-along and not think about it.

Not far off from the bar, at a small table adorned by old license plates and a shoddy framed flag from North Vietnam sat three men. 

“This is absolute fucking Americano, Yolo.” One man said. He was clearly well-built, muscular, but not lean with a shaved head and a meaty grin. He wore an unpretentious black jacket, jeans and a workman’s boots that had not seen a great deal of work. He drank his beer from a bottle and kept his elbows rested on the table. “I fucking love it, almost reminds me of that place we had in Kansas City, remember that?”

“[i]Perky’s[/i].” The other man replied. He was much younger, lanky with sharp features, poorly-cut curly hair, cauliflowered ears and sleeves rolled. He kept his posture relaxed, leaned back in his chair that shifted under his weight uneasily, like every dowel and screw that held it together had been retightened again and again to keep it standing. [i]Yolo[/i] had a keen eye and kept a careful watch over those that plainly recognized them as outsiders. 

“So, who’s the best lawman in this shit hole, Osvaldo?” The older man said.

The third man across the table looked more blue-collar than outlaw. His greasy black hair curled out from under a grungy and faded Angels hat. Hs facial features wrinkled like an old baseball glove at the the question. “Would need to weigh that one for a moment, senior.” The man said. He ran a hand over his mouth and crossed his other arm in consideration. Being a Dellesantos soldier for so many years had affected his memory considerably and he had to think about who was still alive, who was dead and who he wasn't sure either way. The two men in front of him wanted information and were paying handsomely for it, or at least one of them was, and as long as the family was protected, he didn’t see anything wrong with pocketing some cash on the side. His presence at the table abated the stares of the regulars. The calluses on his boney hands and the age in his eyes meant his intel was unquestioned. He gave a thin sigh of exasperation at the fog of age in his memory before he spoke: “The best tracker is Toly Pierce, he’s ex-KGB, will chase a man clear into Canada…” He shifted slightly in his chair still thinking and looking down at the scarred hardwood table between them. “But he is a bondsman… The [i]best[/i] would be L.T. Davis, he is ATF and is fair, will even overlook some things.” Osvaldo nodded to himself with a slight smile at his recollections, but the smile faded back away as another thought approached while [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UsszVfESEQU]Hells Bells[/url] dawned in the background and he shook his head grimly. “No mis amigos, L.T., is the best... but the [i]meanest[/i] is a woman, a Marshal, [i]Kennedy[/i] is her name.”

“Ha! See I told you he’d say that.” The older man slapped Yolo on the back who in turn rolled his eyes and shook his head. 


“Tell us some more, Osvaldo.” The man said. He rested his chin in one hand aggrandizing his interest.

The old Mexican regarded them strangely. “You already know of her?”

“We’re familiar.”

“She’s hardly been in Sol City over a month and has killed at least two men.” Osvaldo continued. “She is loco, from somewhere in Florida, they say she threatened to kill Elvin Santos at gunpoint for information. Always likes to talk before she does something; I heard she beat a man near to death with a Bible.” 

“Crazy bitches are always from Florida, remember that.”

“Just like Shannon.” Yolo chuckled. 

“Oh my fucking God, do not get me started...” 

Osvaldo’s aged glance narrowed. “What did you say your name was again, senior?” 

“Nik…” The older man said. “Nik Giancana.”