Page 28 of Dock

“Very exotic,” Harry insists, voice as shaky as the hand being used to pat dry his forehead.

I’m not sure who’s more unconvinced.

Me or Kegger.

“What type?” The Round Table member cautiously asks, hand lifting to cease the man’s movements.

“I do not get paid to ask those types of questions, Mr. Kegger.”

“And the patch on my back says that we do.” He slyly removes his holstered knife, something every Misfit is required to carry, a lot like our earplugs. “What. Type?”

“It…it…it simply says…” the frantic blotting continues, “small, exotic mammal.”

A more distinctive cry manages to crawl out of the container prompting him to command to the lingering prospect, “Rugrat, open this crate.”

“No, you ca-” is all that manages to make it out of Harry’s mouth before the sight of my drawn Barretta silences him.

While standard Misfit rules insist you pull for your blade first and your gun second – to minimize the mess you make and mental headaches for any uninvolved bystanders – there are times when that’s not possible.

Like now.

Like when your target is at a distance, yet you need his compliance.

Kegger slowly approaches the situation, motioning to the mover to fuck off, prior to repeating, “Rugrat, open the crate.”

Not needing to be told to move, I gradually begin taking a flank position with my weapon trained on the twitchy broker and my peripherals clocking the other two men not so subtly preparing to reach for their own hardware.

“Reach for that .22 and you’ll have a hole in your head and your hand,” threatens the Misfits closest to the situation. “Tex doesn’t miss.”

The reference to our resident sniper – something every club is required to have – Oan Flagg tempts me into losing the stoic expression currently on my face.

Hard not to wanna grin.

He’s an anomaly.

Guy’s maybe a buck sixty soaking wet, keeps an endless stash of pixie sticks, and can count to twenty-five in twenty-five languages.

Nothing about him other than his love of guns gives off any sort of Texas roots.

And to make the shit even funnier…the club name comes from the movie Ghostbusters, not where he was raised.

Huh.

Maybe that’s why I like Emaline.

She’s something strange too.

Something that doesn’t make sense but does all in the same breath.

Kinda like the club itself.

How we’re one percenters yet chained to seemingly archaic customs.

Is that my voice?

Constant contradiction?

The Rugrat assigned to the task grabs the nearby, unoccupied crowbar and pries open the lid to the container that was trying to leave. Upon sliding the object to the ground, he cringes, shakes his head, and briefly shuts his eye before sighing, “You’re gonna wanna see this.”