Hey just a crazy idea and I hope you will review

Hey just a crazy idea and I hope you will review. Thanks to Equilibrium for reviewing.


Present Day Miest

The little speakeasy was finely made place. Tucked away in a snug corner of the street, it was tastefully decorated with wooden wall panels, gaudy murals on the ceiling, beautiful antique furniture, a roulette table, and all manner of niceties. The bartender, who had been busy wiping a glass with a cloth rag, looked up as the creak of the door signaled a new arrival.

"What will you have, fella?" the bartender of the little a customer at the bar. The consumer was a nicely dressed man that did not look at all amiss in the little booze hall. The man tipped back his bowler hat, looked at the bartender square in the eyes, and grinned.

"I'll have a gin," he answered in his smooth drawl. He scanned the room until his eyes fell on a group of four men in purple suits sitting at a table with a card game going and booze flowing freely. Across the room was another group of four men wearing black top hats and stylish suits with a group of the house's ladies of the evening.

Eventually the bartender gave him his drink and he had a question.

"So which faction holds the bar friend?"

"None palie, we're on neutral ground see," the bartender said quickly, breaking into a sweat.

"Oh, I see," the man acknowledged with a knowing nod of his head, "So it would be bad business for you if the gangs were at open war here?"

"Hey palie, still that kinda talk and please leave," the bartender demanded, trying to sound threatening. His quavering voice, however, made the order sound more like a plea.

"Sure thing," he said with a grin. The mysterious man got off of his bar stool, downed his dink, and walked away. It was about ten steps later that the bartender stopped the black suited man.

"Hey! You have to pay for that drink!"

Everyone quieted and turned to look at the man that the bartender indicated, including the two groups of four. The man stopped with his hands in his coat pockets and pivoted on his left foot to face the bartender. A grin was fixed on the man's face.

"Sorry 'bout this," the man said with false sympathy. He visibly relaxed for a moment and then became a blur of motion.




In either hand the man held a gun, each different but equally efficient. Working in unison, they killed three men in the symphony of death. The left gun was a heavily inlaid and bejeweled, pistol-like gun with a cone sticking out of the top that was covered in strange symbols. The right gun was more like a six shooter with several small spheres sticking out of it. That was the entirety bartender noticed for a few moments until he looked to the bleeding bodies of three of the four men of both groups on the ground. The remaining two men had the muzzles of the man's guns pointed at their foreheads.

"This is one hell of a dandy isn't it? But I have to tell you two that if either of you two moves you'll have windows for your brains," the man told them, "Now I want you to go tell Big Purple," he looked to the man in purple, "and you to tell Gentleman Jack," he looked to the man in the top hat, "that the A.I. Gang is gunning for both of 'em. Now get outta here, NOW!"

The two gang members ran as if the hounds of hell were hot on their heels. The gunman gave a sharp barking laugh at the fear of the two gang members. Almost unnoticed, he holstered his guns back wherever they had come from.

"The boys on the floor will be paying for my drink and any damages. Have a good evening too sah," the gunman said with a little wave and walked out the door.

The streets of Smokey River Town were littered with garbage and bits of debris. Most people just ignored and steeped over such things without a thought about it. The only ones who kept it in check were the shop keepers but they just pushed it into the street. Ten men strolled down one of these filthy streets. At first glance there was nothing uniform about the motley crew, for they were wearing all manner of clothing, but a second look would reveal that all wore right pauldrons with silver rat tails hanging from them.

"Did you hear that The Purple Brothers and the Gents are fighting the A.I. Gang?" the front man asked one of his companions.

"The arses that they are! Once that's over theys gonna be weakened big time on all sides," he concluded with a laugh with the others. He continued with a greedy, conspiratorial tone, "Then it's us Uptown Rats who'll get the upper hand. Ha!"

"Yeah boys, it'll all be ours'!" the youngest member yelled out into the night. His proclamation was quickly accompanied by the hoots and hollers of his compatriots. It was then that they heard the sounds of machinery and the scraping of metal on cobbled street.

"What the hell is all that then!?" one of them screeched.

A large device was slowly coming up to the intersection they had just passed. The machine they saw was both a terrifying and ridiculous sight. It looked akin to a tank in the fact that it had treads and a boxy, armor plated body but otherwise it was more akin to a scrap heap. They could see three large, metal wheels on the side of the vehicle as well as several noticeable hatches all over the side and front. A large battering ram was attached to the front and back as well and the top had smoke stacks, mechanical arms, and other, more unidentifiable contraptions.

It stopped mid intersection and pivoted with ease, came down the street and stopped just a few buildings down from the group of gangsters. Out of the group of objects on the top of it came a speaking cone and some kind of periscope.

"Good evening gentlemen, the A.I. Gang would like you to take a message to your leaders," a distorted voice came from out of the cone. The large machine turned broadside and finished its threat, "You're all going to rot in hell flesh scum!"

Several gattling guns and a handful of cannons moved out from the now opened hatches and one shot a large net at the young member, dragging him towards the machine. The others started running and were cut down with cannon fire and bullets. One man was unrecognizable, another riddle with bullet holes and yet another was slowly bleeding to death from flesh wounds and a lost arm, ect. Overall, the incident lasted less than ten seconds.

"Go tell your bosses boy!" a similar yet different voice told the Uptown Rat gang member as the machine released him from the net. Inner mechanisms hissed and groaned simultaneously lowering all six wheels and raising the deadly conveyance. Then with a lurching groan it sped down the road away from the massacre, taking out a horse drawn carriage along the way.

The young gangster watched it go, too afraid to even twitch. When he finally managed to move he looked over to his fallen friends and promptly vomited at the gore and destruction caused by the device and its occupants.

Then he got up and ran.

"Wacky doodle ooddle doodle day, I'm so happy is what I say!" sang a fellow who was skipping down that street. To say that he was an oddity would have been a huge understatement. This was not beacuse of his white suit and shoes, his long pink hair and rose colored glasses, or even the purple, red, and pink hearts covering his hat, but because he was one of the few living people in the lively metropolis of Necropolis. Or perhaps 'thriving' would be a more accurate description, because 'lively' implied that the occupants were actually alive, which was a grave mistake.

"Hey, ya mook! Shut it or you'll be sleeping with the liches, kapeesh!?" one of the zombie gangsters coming of the casino yelled. The street they were on was known for being a particularly seedy part of town and was controlled by the Vengeful Skull Gang. They had a hand in every illegal activity in Necropolis as well as a few legitimate businesses and the government.

"Hey friend, there's no need to be green, but if you could please tell Calavera Joe that the Mr. Gang is out for him that'd be great," the strange man told him with a toothy grin.

"You're gonna die you filthy living meatbag!" the zombie threatened as he started draw his sawn-off. The bizarre man waved his hand in front of him causing the gun to glow red-hot and the zombie to drop it so it would not set him aflame.

"So just spread the word and…," the pink haired man paused for a bow while tipping his hat. A fiery explosion took out three buildings down the street causing mass hysteria and sending shrapnel flying in all directions. Finishing his farewell he said, "… have a wonderful day."

A spiral of flame engulfed the heart covered man and he had disappeared by the time it had dissipated.

"Everyone is at everyone else's throat it would seem," Cheshire said with his usual grin and taking a drink from his cup of Joe in one of his tentacles. The pigments in his skin shifted color rapidly as it always did when he was happy.

"I know that Cheshire," Bill said sitting opposite of his partner in the café booth. He held onto the handle of his katana as he let it lie on the table before him. The swordsman didn't seem to mind the filth on the table or in the entire little dingy restaurant. "What I want to know is why."

"You humans always wanting to know why, why, why," Cheshire countered.

"Of course we do you dumb Cephaloman; your kind asks that too!" Bill pointed out angrily.

"That's just hurtful Bill because-," A pause. "… our marks are here," Chesire finished in a low voice. Bill just barely heard his squid-like chum put the clip on his Tommy gun and put down his drink as five of the members of Mr. Gang walked in. Mr. Gang was mainly composed of magical constructs made of clay in kilns or carved from blocks of wood into life sized puppets. It appeared that three of the Mr. Sunglasses (the clay foot soldiers) led by a Mr. Shades (one of the stronger and smarter puppets) were hitting up the owner for protection money.

"Show time," Bill said with a grin. He got up, holding his sheathed blade behind his back in his left hand while placing his right hand on the handle. Walking up he stopped just within the striking distance of his blade.

"Hello boys, how ya doin'?"

"Buzz off insect, unless you want a fat lip," Mr. Shades told him. The owner of the little dive backed up as the three Mr. Sunglasses started to draw their guns.

Cheshire jumped out from his booth, Tommy gun held in two tentacles and hand guns held in three of the remaining four arm tentacles, and fired at the three low level enforcers. He blew off their heads first and then their hands, quickly shattering the rests of their bodies as well as the plate glass window behind them. Bill was not just lazing about as this happened but he drew his blade and almost in one motion he cut off the arms of Mr. Shades and kicked his feet out from beneath him knocking him flat on his back.

"Okay freak, listen and listen good. Tell your boss that Big Purple is gunnin' for him! Got it?" Bill asked the frightened wooden being who shook his head violently, "Good, I'm glad we understand one another. Grinning Bob."

Together the Cephaloman and the swordsman flatfooted it out through the broken window leaving behind fearful people and a terrified Mr. Shades.

"Yeah, the boss says that Weld Face himself is searching for whoever is sending these hit men," the synthesized voice of one of the members of the A.I Gang said to his subordinates. He was a true robot with an upgraded chassis complete with the latest style in red and yellow with glowing eyes and a golden A.I. underneath his suite. His subordinates were mainly cyborgs in less stylish clothing and more basic enhancements.

"Yeah, all this looking over our shoulders and all that jazz is nerve rackin'!" one of the cyborgs half muttered. The others nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, but at least we got this kickin' singer," another one of the cyborgs said with a grin, which was all he could do in terms of expression since the rest of his face was bionic and metal-plated.

The singer was excellent, especially when accompanied by the house orchestra, but her vocal prowess wasn't the only reason the men in the club were at her beck and call. She was comparable to a living pinup girl; hourglass figure, long legs, fiery red hair done in a peek-a-boo style, luscious red lips, and an impressive bust. Her attire (that could be seen) consisted of her strapless, sequined red dress with a slit up the left side that nearly reached her hip, elbow length gloves of the same material, and a pair of matching high heels. Light from the spotlights made her absolutely glow.

"You cyborgs, always thinking with your flesh," the robotic leader spat out (as much as he could with his voice). It was when he did not receive a response that he started to become alarmed, "Hey, what's wrong flesh boys? Boys?"

"I'm afraid that they can't hear you, sweetheart, and they won't unless I want them to," the singer said into the microphone with her breathy, sultry voice. She snapped her gloved fingers and the band stopped playing immediately. A second snap and the machine man was restrained by his cyborg comrades. Sashaying down from the stage, watched by the men in her thrall, she took a seat on the robot's lap with one arm around his neck. "It's a shame you're a robot, I always got a thrill from the color red."

"What do you want you filthy human broad?!" he buzzed in his considerably higher voice.

"That's not way to talk to a lady you naughty boy," she sniffed and looked away, brushing a tear from her eye. She turned back to him with a pout, "Just tell your higher ups that if you try anything that the Vengeful Skulls will be all over them you big bully. There's no excuse for picking on me, I'm just a poor girl."

The men around them and all through the men's club started to get angry and glare at the machine in rage. Slowly and seductively the lounge singer got up to leave and took a deep breath. She looked around for a moment and grabbed a nearby man by his tie and dragged him out with her.

"Now you boys have fun," she purred as she left out of the front door with her slave in tow. That was when the mass slaughter began, men killing each other with fists, feet, teeth, nails, guns, and knives.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't Grinning Bob and Bill Blade," a smooth, drawling voice said from somewhere in the dingy, steam-filled alley. Cheshire and Bill instantly had their weapons out as they looked for the owner of the voice. It was dark, the only light coming from the weak crescent moon and the far-away street light at the alley mouth. "No need to hide Bob, your little pigment trick can't hide you from me even in this darkness."

"Wait, is that Ten Gun? Is that you, you shape shifting bastard?" Bill asked the night, sheathing his katana. Slowly, a section of brick wall drew away from the wall leaving behind a hole. The filmy black ooze that was the wall coalesced into a humanoid form that became a man with a suit and bowler. "I should have known that the same scumbag that hired us hired you."

"Of course, I heard you boys hit the Mr. Gang," Ten Gun stated happily now walking along with the other two hit men to their destination.

"Oh yeah, nothing like some good solid hits," Cheshire said with a few of his tentacles wriggling happily, "But you took out six boys from the Gents and the Purple Brothers. Now that's impressive."

"They were nothing to brag about, just stupid low level enforcers who thought they were big time," Ten Gun said in disgust. He seemed rather contemptuous of this fact. "You two did well though."

"Doubtful, I feel the same way as you," Bill corrected. He seemed just at disgusted with the ease and pointlessness of his hits as well now.

"Now, now boys, no getting down on yourselves for a few easy kills. Who knows though? We might get to do some real killing at this meeting with our hire," Cheshire said attempting to cheer up the other two killers. He perked up even more when he reached a metal door of the special warehouse that the meeting was supposed to take place in. Cheshire attempted to knock on the door but it opened with a mechanical clicking sound. "That's convenient."

"Yeah, take us to our massacre faster," Bill muttered as he entered first. Ten Gun followed him in and Cheshire came last. Together they walked into the dim light of torches deep within the labyrinth of crates and boxes. A few familiar faces greeted them upon their entrance.

"Hello boys," the sultry smoky voice of the beautiful lounge singer greeted the three hit men. A large, dumb looking young man in farmer's clothing sat next to her under her thrall. His jaw was slack and his eyes were glazed staring at her in her similar but black outfit.

"Fellas," two men, both dressed in cheap plaid suits, greeted as well. One was tall, but mostly in his legs, while the other was extremely skinny. Both had similar pointed chins and thin noses.

"Hahaha! Good evening to you lovely gentlemen, I hope I find you well?" the pink haired man questioned after them while tipping his heart covered hat.

"I should hope they're well! That goes for the rest of you too!" a cheerful voice boomed throughout the warehouse. All of the assassins who had weapons immediately went for them, but the voice stopped them before they could draw them out. "Don't be afraid friends, I am the one who hired you after all and I wouldn't be a good host if I killed you."

"Why don't you come out then and greet us, like a good host," Ten Gun interjected. His eyes searched the area around them looking for their host.

"Of course, of course, how rude of me," the voice said to them. A large box decorated with fanciful pictures of the deep sea, the night sky, mountains, forests, and -incongruously enough - a cup of steaming hot coffee, rolled out to them from within the maze of containers. The box was big enough for a person to fit into standing upright and spun around while coming towards the hit men like a wind up toy complete with internal clicking noises. Eventually it stopped in their midst and the panel showing the steaming cup of coffee opened to reveal a strange little man covered from head to toe in mocha colored hooded robes. He saluted and then asked in his strangely deep voice, "Is that more to your liking?"

"You're the one who hired us?" the taller of the two men with the cheap suits asked him with a mix of scorn and disbelief in his voice.

"Yes, technically… I'm more of an intermediary between all of you and my… employer," the little man said quite clearly despite the high collar of his robes. The fact was that the only thing that could be seen of him was his gleaming little eyes within the folds of his clothing.

"And who would he be sweetheart?" the lounge singer asked with a look of longing in her eyes.

"That I cannot tell you as of yet but be assured that my employer will be revealed in time. You can all call me Cup o' Joe," the little man answered. "Oh my, I must make introductions since you will be working together!"

"I'm not interested in making more chump change for killing idiots that don't pose a challenge little man. Just give me my money and I'll leave," Ten Gun told him sourly.

"Same here," Bill seconded.

"Likewise then," Cheshire added.

"Please wait!" Cup o' Joe pleaded, "I can promise you more money than you can imagine, power, and challenging kills!

"Prove it then," the skinny cheap suited man challenged him.

"Prove it?" Joe said, his words an odd combination of a statement and question. Determinedly he walked back into his box and pulled out six black suitcases sliding each one to each group of hit men. Upon opening them, everyone found a substantially higher amount of cash than any of them had expected. Much higher. "Is everyone satisfied?"


"Consider that a signing bonus," Cup o' Joe chuckled at their shock, "Onto the introductions then. First, Danny "Ten Gun" Alterie, the shape shifter with guns galore. Care to say anything Danny?"

"If people start hugging during this, then someone's getting shot."

"Next, the partners in crime, William "Grinning Bob" Cheshire, the Cephaloman gunman, and Bill "Blade" Slade, our swordsman, are accustomed to teamwork so they'll be your field leaders," Joe told them in a lecturing tone, before continuing on to the strange pink-haired man, "Cal Crimson the arsonist and explosives expert who is our master of the mystical and occult."

"Why thank you," Cal thanked him while tipping his hat.

"Then there are the brother Ben "Legs" Falconus and Sacko "Slim" Falconus. Together they drive their vehicle and they'll be our wheel men and heavy artillery," the little man continued. He finished with the female member of the group, "Last, but certainly not least, is the beautiful and deadly Miss Bambi Psiren. She'll be our… let's just say she'll have her many uses. I'm afraid I don't know the name of your companion though Ms. Psiren."

"I just call him a late night snack," she told him with a smile while licking her full, luscious lips. The others looked over at her warily and with disgust.

"How… delightful for you Ms. Psiren," Cup o' Joe assured with an uncommitted hand gesture. He quickly made a coughing gesture into a balled fist and moved on with business. "Now that everyone knows each other we can move on to your first assignment; you're to… completely destroy the Gum Shoes and anything that gets in your way. Any mobsters that you can take out as well would be good too."

"Killing those goody two shoes? I would almost have done that for free," Legs gloated.

"Almost!" Slim finished and they both started laughing.

"Most importantly on the list are; Hernando 1 Caballero Mark 7, Mollie Zyton, Christopher "Swordkin" Dobbs, and New Grey Town," Joe told them. The laughter stopped. Ms. Psiren scowled. Bill Blade growled. Grinning Bob frowned and looked to Bill. Danny Alterie grinned to himself. Cal Crimson was silent.

The drums were rolling, the rain was falling, and the crowd was silent. A man walked up the wooden steps of the gallows escorted by an officer in full grey dress uniform. The man's hands were bound behind his back, his legs were shackled, and a black hood was over his head. He wore what would have once been a nice suit, but it was dirtied and ruined now.

The entire prison yard that execution was taking place in was made of the same grey stone. It was not a cheery place, with its high walls and iron gates topped with wicked-looking barbed wire. Only the very unlucky or stupid - or both - ended up here. This courtyard was called the mercy gate by the older inmates who had their spirits crushed in the prison.

Finally, the prisoner and his guard made it to the top. They did not stand alone, for the black clad and masked executioner and the court representative in his tweed suit and powdered wig stood with them. Clearing his throat the official spoke;

"Christopher Dobbs, you have been tried and convicted of murder as well as several other lesser crimes," a pause. "You are now to be hung until dead. I pray that the Gods have mercy on your soul," the official announced for all to hear. "Executioner!"


Just a simple little start to my story and I hope you enjoyed it enough to review. Kdh.