Chapter 3 - Engage

Bradacus awoke with visions of Dream Noir in his head. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it. This was an important day for business. Why would his thoughts turn toward the busty barmaid? Well, there were reasons, two of them at least.
The crew wolfed down the remainder of last night's horse stew and packed up their belongings. Having secured their gear on their buffaloes, they began the short ride to Chuparosa to meet with the enigmatic DJ Picard. 

Before arriving at Kappa Kafe and Saloon, Dream sat upstairs in her room. It was decorated with yellow wallpaper and throw pillows, her flat directly one floor above the bar. At the moment, she was busily engaged in a conversation with her daughter.
“What did you gather?” Dream asked Rachael in a hushed voice.
“They're plannin' on some kind o' robbery,” Rachael told her in her young voice. “To get more horses. And, Ma, I think I was followed.”
“Followed?” Dream shrieked in disbelief. “Say it ain't so!”
“I wasn't the only one out there. Someone else made a sound and got away before they was discovered.”  
Dream paced around the room, biting her thumb. Bradacus was planning a robbery and someone else knew about it. Should she get involved and tell Brad? But how could she explain to him the way she learned this information?

As he neared Chuparosa, Wilko sat atop his buffalo, idly fingering the gun strapped to his hip. He pulled it from its holster, removing and inserting all the bullets back into the nine chambers. Most revolvers only accommodated six or eight bullets, making his revolver particularly unique.
“Hey, Wilko. You ever get that squabble settled between you and Mev?” Leaking Pan asked.
“Mev Gamer?” Wilko nearly spat the words, grunting in contempt. “Not yet.”
“Whatever was that beef about anyway?” Leaking Pan pressed, hoping Wilko would finally share the story.
“None of your concern,” Wilko answered angrily, removing and then inserting all the bullets once again. 
That was the one topic Wilko was strangely mute on, refusing to ever go into detail. From the little they had learned, Mev Gamer, a countryman of Wilko's, had wronged him in some way. The dispute prompted him to leave Mev and join the Glue Crew full-time. 
Wilko holstered his gun and spat at the ground, riding in silence until at last they arrived at the saloon.

A bouncing number sprang from the pianoforte, its fast pace inviting all who listened to stand and dance. A few patrons actually were, their movements awkward and jerky. Picard's fingers slid rapidly across the keys, his red tie bobbing as he moved up and down. Even the stoic Jingle Wumpus and Echo Twenty Aught Seven, standing on opposite sides of the room, could be seen nodding their head or tapping a toe.
Zee had three shots of whiskey by the time Picard finished, which was to say he finished three minutes later. Picard stood up from off the stool and bowed to his audience. A few people even clapped.
“What was that?” Leaking Pan asked, intrigued.
“Oh, that kind of music won't come out for another century or so,” Picard replied cryptically. “The real stuff will involve electricity, but until then, you can call it swing.” He motioned to the men to follow him, and once more they entered the poker room with the ugly, brown walls.
When Echo and Jingle took their positions, Picard spoke.
“How do you find my offer?” he asked, wasting no time.
The barmaid sauntered to the table to take their orders, her dark blonde hair carefully styled. Her shirt, a low-cut white blouse, was strategically worn today. When she saw Bradacus, she winked.
“Beer me,” Pancake told Dream. “I'm gonna need a champion's breakfast for a day like today.”
“Whiskey!” said Zee. “And some tea, swift!”
“Vodka,” ordered the Pan.
“I'll have a cosmo, three cherries.” Wilko glared about the room violently, daring anyone to comment on his choice of drink.
Dream nodded and turned to Bradacus, noticing his deep green eyes.  Every so often, those hard eyes flashed with hints of red. Pretty.
She cleared her throat. “And you, Sir Bradacus?” His name rolled off her tongue like music.
“Jameson.”

The door to the poker room banged open and a woman wearing a frilly, red garment burst in. Echo and Jingle, their pistols already drawn, had their sights trained on their target.
The woman wore a red and black corset decorated with ruffles and lace, her short, brown hair slightly wavy. Her legs were slender, covered in translucent, black stockings that came to a lacy finish near the top of the thigh, a red bow accenting each one. 
“He'll have a shot of me, is what he'll have,” the girl announced brazenly, sashaying toward Brad in red and black pumps. She sat in his lap, crossed her legs, and gazed into his face. “One shot of Ange, ain't that right, darling?” She kissed him gently on the cheek. “Your ruler!”
Brad shifted in his chair uncomfortably. How did Ange Ruler find him?
Dream Noir's eyes narrowed. “This is a private party, Miss Gena,” she said, calling Ange by her given name rather than her stage name. “And Bradacus has more important matters at the moment than the dancing of an overpaid strumpet!”
If the insult bothered Gena, it didn't show. She smiled and stood up, fixing Dream with icy blue eyes. “No matter,” she said casually, tossing her chocolate hair with one hand. “I'll be performing all month. No doubt Brad will catch one of my shows.” She dragged her finger sensually across Brad's chest. “And more than one of my private shows, I'm sure.” She walked away slowly, exaggerating the sensual rock of her hips.

“Well now,” Picard said as Dream followed Gena out. Echo and Jingle returned their pistols to their holster. “That was invigorating. You'll have to tell me that story another time.”
Bradacus raised an eyebrow. They said the West was a vast expanse of unexplored space. A man could get lost in all that space. Obviously, this wasn't the case.
Clearing his throat, Brad changed the subject. “We accept your terms, Mr. Picard. We split the profits fifty-fifty, providing you live up to your end of the bargain.”
“I certainly will, I assure you,” he promised. “When it comes to money, I don't fuck around.”
Brad saw the intensity in Picard's hazel eyes and was inclined to believe him.
DJ Picard slid a folded map across the green felt. “The McFartland's hidden stock of horses is thirty three miles from here. The map will show you the way.”
“And it's guarded by?” Pancake asked, leaving his question hanging.
Picard smoothed the front of his creamy suit and looked Cake dead in the eye.“El Rota, and his Beast Rebels of the Hellscape.”
Agitated Pancake couldn't refrain from letting out a long whistle, this time sending his toothpick flying and landing on the felt. El Rota was one nasty hombre to tango with.
“I'll kill him myself.” Leaking Pan's gentle demeanor had vanished, his voice filled with tightly controlled rage. That son of a bitch was still alive.
“Who are these Beast Rebels?” Burning Zee asked, his blood beginning to warm. Whether it was from the whiskey or the idea of a good fight, he wasn't sure.
“The gang's comprised of Rixo, Cali, Militant Bralor, and Sargento Rosquilla. That's Sergeant Donut, for those of you who don't speak Spanish.”
“Mean bunch,” Zee noted, recognizing the names. He looked at his friends, a wild grin spreading across his face.
“El Rota dies by my hand,” Leaking Pan reaffirmed, his fingers unconsciously resting on his pistol. “Ya'll leave him for me, you hear?”
Dream returned with their drinks, deliberately bending by Brad as she passed them out. Bradacus, unabashedly, sneaked a peek. Nice.

“We'll need Reno, Catalysts, and Wikki,” Wilko said with certainty. “Easier if we keep the numbers in our favor.”
Bradacus nodded. As quickly as she arrived, Dream left. He didn't like to see her go, but he loved watching her leave.
“And that new gear you promised,” Wilko pointed out to Picard, making sure he lived up to his part of the agreement. He still didn't trust the bald fuck.
Picard raised a finger to Echo. “Make it so.” 
Echo stroked his long, brown beard in acknowledgment. 
“One more thing,” Picard said, standing up. “Come out with me to the bar. There's more I want to show you.” The room emptied and soon they were standing next to the bar, the barkeep busily washing glasses. Burning Zee ordered two more shots, this time of tequila. It seemed appropriate, seeing as their next altercation was with a Mexican gang.
“See that man there?” Picard asked, indicating an unkempt man with stains running down his shirt. “That's Distorted Net.”
“Can't say I'm familiar with him,” Bradacus replied, sneaking a glance at Dream Noir once more. Those buns gave him two more reasons to think of her later.
“Distorted has access to all sorts of horses. Quarter horses, mustangs, appaloosas, Arabians, you name it. The man is well-connected. But, beware. He is just as deranged and depraved as his name implies.”
Brad understood the warning.
“And over there,” Picard subtly gestured toward two men in strange, black suits drinking from large beer steins. “Shinma Ryche and Dr. Mezmoriz, two new-comers from Germany whose end game I have yet to discover. One thing is certain, however. They are particularly interested in horses. They could be a problem down the road.”
Brad could see the business deal with Picard was already paying off. He was well-informed.
“I want you gentlemen to understand I'm in this partnership for the long haul,” Picard explained. “Together, I see a substantial sum of money in our future.”
For Brad, the money was just a perk. The real joy came from the slaughter, slaying horses one by one and two by two.

Dream Noir couldn't stop peering over at Brad, her mind preoccupied with the knowledge that someone was spying on him. Well, someone besides herself, that is. How was she going to let him know? And what in the world was Rachael doing? 
“Howdy, stranger,” Rachael greeted Burning Zee, pulling up a bar stool beside him. “Fancy sharing some o' that whiskey?”
Zee considered the girl for a moment. Was she hitting on him?
“A shot for the lady,” Zee ordered from the barkeep.
“Thank ya, mister,” Rachael replied, quaffing the shot in one gulp. Black Bush, her favorite.
Dream's ears turned red in anger. What in the blazes was Rachael thinking drinking alcohol with men twice her age?

“You've been very helpful,” Brad told Picard, tipping his ushanka at him. “How soon til that equipment is ready?”
“I'm outfitting how many men now, eight?”
Brad inclined his ushanka once again.
“I'll need a week.”
“Works for me. It'll take a week to find Reno, Wikki, and Catalysts anyhow.”
“Bradacus, it's been a genuine pleasure. I'll meet you here in a week.” Shaking Brad's hand, Picard excused himself, Jingle and Echo following him out.
Brad bought a whiskey and turned to face Dream Noir, who was occupied taking an order from the disheveled Distorted Net. Had he detected a hint of jealousy earlier when Ange Ruler came on to him? Dream had a daughter, so he knew there was a man somewhere in Dream's life, but how involved was he?
And then there was Ange, who appeared like a snake in a boot, complicating his stay here. Was it merely a coincidence she found him or was it something more contrived?
He considered the journey before him. Catalysts and Wikki Wald would answer the call, but Reno was going to take some convincing. He was confident he could recruit them for the McFartland job, but what about after that? Would they stay to take on Distorted Net, Shinma Ryche and Mezmoriz, or possibly settle the score between Wilko and Mev? How long would their interest in glue last? 
These solemn thoughts pervaded his mind as he twirled the whiskey in his shot glass.

“What in the Sam hell do you think you're doing?”
“Ma!” Rachael protested. “I'm a grown woman!”
“You're only sixteen, Miss Rachael!” Dream shouted.
“But Ma, it's the year 1911! Sixteen is like being thirty!”
Dream grabbed her by the hand and led her up the wooden staircase, marching her to their apartment. “You stay in that room until I get you, you hear?”
Rachael pouted but Dream slammed the door shut and stormed back down the staircase. Reaching the bottom, she put on a smile and returned to work as though nothing happened.

Brad made a mental note to look into the whereabouts of Mister Noir, if he was even still around. But that would have to wait. His nostrils flared as he thought about the glue that would soon be flowing from his factory. Was the chubby he got in his pants just now from thinking of horse killing or Dream Noir?
Hell, why couldn't it be from both?

Chapter 2 - Shaking Things Up

A fire burned steadily in the center of camp. Bradacus, Leaking Pan, Wilko Nine Shot, Burning Zee, and Agitated Pancake all took places around the fire, waiting for dinner to finish cooking. The wide, orange sun was setting and the aroma from their stew hinted it was nearly done.

“We could easily raid the small McFartland ranch we know about,” Pancake was saying, beginning to weigh out the options. “But we don't know where this secret ranch is Picard mentioned.”

“Right,” Leaking Pan joined in. “Do we go after a sure thing, with a modest reward, or take our chances with DJ Picard and potentially reap a larger payoff?”

Brad rubbed his stubbled chin. “Keep in mind, that secret team of horses is guarded. Picard said he knows specifically who its guarded by, implying it's a dangerous lot. We could lose men in search of that profit.”

The Glue Crew stopped to think for a moment. All were willing to die for the cause, but how much sweeter is it to live for one? Horses needed to be slaughtered, and if they weren't alive to fulfill that holy work, who would?

“Stew's ready,” Burning Zee proclaimed, reaching for a spoon to begin serving out portions.

“I'm just gonna add a little salt,” Wilko said, pouring out a measure of his favorite seasoning.

“Needs more pepper,” Pancake noted, sprinkling more in.

“Hey! Hey!” Bradacus stepped in. “Too many cooks! Too many cooks!”

“Seriously, guys,” Leaking Pan chided. “You'll spoil the broth.”

Each man helped himself to a hearty serving of their favorite meal—potato and horse stew. Delicious.

“I don't trust 'im,” Wilko spat, picking up where they left off. “We don't know anything about Picard.”

“Do we have a reason not to trust him?” Bradacus wondered, his ushanka glowing in the fire's red light. “Killing horses is our livelihood. It's why we exist. If Picard knows where we can find more, I say we give him that chance. If he proves to be an aggravation, we eliminate him along with his two sidekicks, Jingle Butt-Kiss and Echo Twenty Naught Gonna Survive.”

They gobbled down more stew, considering the choice placed before them.

A soft noise rustled not far away.

“I heard something!” Pancake said excitedly. “Over there!” He pointed toward a large bush in the clearing.

Burning Zee shot up to investigate. If someone were there, he would make them pay for their eavesdropping. Drawing his gun, he leaped behind the bush, ready to fire.

But there was no one. If someone was there, they disappeared—like a ninja.

“Nuttin' there,” Zee told the group, taking a seat on a rock next to the fire.

“Men, do we risk it?” Bradacus asked, calling for a vote.

“Aye,” Leaking Pan answered.

“I'm in,” said Zee.

“Fine,” Wilko replied acidly, his sexy voice masking his reservations.

“Dern sure,” Pancake concurred.

“Then it's agreed,” Brad declared. “Tomorrow we'll meet with DJ Picard and accept his terms.”

Leaking Pan ran a hand through his raven black hair. “We might need a few more good men to fight whatever gang is protecting those horses,” he added thoughtfully.

“What about Reno? He still good with a gun?” Burning Zee asked, his leather chaps creaking as he adjusted himself on his rock. “Or has farming life made him soft?”

“He can still shoot,” Bradacus confirmed. “I'll bet we could enlist Wikki Wald and Catalysts, too.”

Leaking Pan nodded in approval. 

The matter settled, there was nothing left to do but wait for morning. To help pass the time, Zee pulled out his guitar and struck up his favorite melody.

“Dem hataaas! They just wanna haaaaate!

“Oh, dem hataaas! Always wantin' to haaaaate!

“But me, I don't miiiiiind. 'Cause I'm gonna shaaaaake!

“Gonna shake it right offfff! Shake, shake, shake, shaaaaake!”

He repeated the chorus over and over, his guitar swaying rhythmically.

Wilko scowled. “You ever gonna sing a different song there, mate?”

“Nope.”

Chapter 1 - The Usual Suspects

Bradacus adjusted his hat, a worn Russian ushanka he obtained from a trader. It was a strange thing to see a man wearing a ushanka in the West, but it served its purpose. When people saw “the man in the ushanka” strolling through town, they gave him a wide berth.
Bradacus sat atop his tamed buffalo, another peculiarity that distinguished Brad from the plebs of the Wild West. Why a buffalo, he was constantly inquired. “Fuck horses!” Brad would reply angrily. He possessed a holy hatred for the animal. They were terrible creatures, and if he could manage it, he would kill every last one of them.
Today his objective was to raid Bonnie McFartland's ranch. He had nothing against Bonnie personally, but there were horses on that ranch—horses that needed to join his glue factory.
Beside Bradacus rode others, all mounted on buffaloes, in what he liked to call his Glue Crew. There was Leaking Pan, an even dispositioned type with curly black hair; Agitated Pancake, whose name belied his cool demeanor; Burning Zee, a wild man with a penchant for ladies, music, and booze; and Wilko Nine Shot, a foreigner with a silky voice from down under, which everyone assumed meant Peru. Each man carried a personal chip on his shoulder against horses, making them invaluable members in Bradacus' crew.

Before proceeding to the McFartland ranch, they needed to make one last stop—Kappa Kafe & Saloon. They were meeting a man with information pertaining to the McFartland ranch, information crucial to the mission's success, or so they were told.
In no time the riders arrived at the saloon, located in the small town of Chuparosa, and tied their buffaloes to the wooden post out front.
Kicking open the saloon's swinging doors, Bradacus stepped inside with his posse. The occupants turned to stare at the five ruffians who so loudly announced their entrance.
“Where's DJ Picard?” Brad demanded, his voice terse.
The bar stirred uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. Finally, a lovely barmaid with dark blonde hair pointed toward the man playing the pianoforte. His head was bald and he wore an ivory three piece suit, accented with a crimson red tie.
“Over there, sug,” she told Brad confidently, her voice accented with a southern drawl. 
“Thank you, madam,” Brad paused, awaiting her name. 
“Noir. Dream Noir. But everyone here calls me Dream, hon.”
“Thank you kindly, Dream.” Brad tipped his ushanka to her and walked in the direction of the piano player, his crew close behind.
“I don't like it,” Leaking Pan whispered to Brad as they walked. “Why would he be playing the piano? Seems strange.”
“I agree, mate,” Wilko said in his accented but sexual voice.
“Chill your waffles, everyone,” Agitated Pancake chimed in, a toothpick casually between his teeth. “Let's see what he has to say.”

They walked to a round table behind the piano player and sat down, dragging the chairs across the floor with a loud screech. If Picard wasn't alerted to their presence before, he was now.
The barmaid swished her way over to the table to take the men's orders.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Dream said dreamily. “What'll it be?”
“Shots?” Leaking Pan asked the group.
“Shots,” Pancake and Wilko agreed.
“Shots!” Burning Zee nearly screamed.
“Shots of what, gentlemen?” the buxom barmaid asked gently.
“Whiskey,” Bradacus answered, eyeing the barmaid up and down.
Dream blushed under his gaze and quickly turned around to fetch their drinks, her hips swaying hypnotically as she moved.
DJ Picard, for his part, seemed to be in no rush. He continued playing the odd song on the pianoforte, a number that sounded out of place with the bar's rustic setting.
Bradacus listened to the song as he waited for his whiskey. There was something catchy in its melody, and, for whatever reason, it made him think of the stars.
Dream Noir returned with a tray laden of shot glasses filled with amber liquid.  When she distributed the shots around the table, she spilled a little on Wilko Nine Shot's arm.
“Oh, do excuse me, fine sir. Here's a towel,” Dream offered.
“A towel?” Wilko scowled. “Why would I want a towel?” He brushed away the spill with his other hand and spat at the towel Dream held out.
“My apologies, sir,” she muttered, leaving to return to her waitressing.

Just then the music stopped and DJ Picard spun around on his stool to face the men at the table.
“You must be Bradacus,” Picard noted, nodding at the man's ushanka. “I'm glad you could meet me. Please, come with me to this backroom where we can discuss our business privately.” He stood up and motioned for them to follow, leading them to a room behind the bar. He gave a quick nod and two men, who had been standing on opposite ends of the saloon, began to follow.
Inside the room was a poker table covered in green felt, ugly brown boards lining the walls. Each took their seat at the poker table and waited for DJ Picard to speak.
“These are my men, Echo Twenty Aught Seven and Jingle Wumpus,” he said as the two strolled in and took their posts on either side of the room. “I hope you don't misunderstand my intentions, but a man must be cautious. I'm sure someone of your caliber can appreciate a thing like that.”
Bradacus gauged Picard carefully. So far he didn't seem to be posing any kind of real threat. And besides, there were five of him and three of them.
“I understand you're in the glue industry,” Picard continued, thoughtfully watching Bradacus' reactions. “I, too, am a man interested in glue.”  He paused and straightened his red tie, gathering his thoughts. “The information I'm fixing to give you isn't free. What I'm proposing is a business arrangement in exchange for what I know.”
“And what do you know?” Zee asked impatiently, his thoughts turning toward another shot of whiskey.
Picard nodded to Zee and continued. “I know many things, such as where the McFartland's keep their secret team of horses, and, perhaps more importantly, who it is that guards them.”
Pancake let out a long whistle as he understood the implications of what Picard was saying.

“You see, Bradacus,” Picard went on, “you've got the man power, the skill, and the reputation. I, but a mere businessman, couldn't hope to wrestle those horses free from the McFartland's hidden ranch. Echo and Jingle are terrific shots, but taking on gangs isn't what I pay them for, you understand.”
“What is your proposal?” Brad asked matter-of-factly.
“I propose that when you and your men find these horses, and dispose of their guardians, you and I share in the profits of glue production.”
Brad rubbed his chin thoughtfully, noticing the stubble had grown significantly longer over the last few days. It was high time he had a shave.
“I will also provide you with the finest gear for your exploits,” Picard continued, “and upgrade your factory to new levels of production. All I ask, in return, is a fair share of the profits.”
“And what would you consider fair?” Brad asked shrewdly, waiting to see what kind of man Picard was by the way he negotiated. 
“Oh, I could posture myself so, pretend my share is so much more than yours, and down play your role as we haggle back and forth, but what say you we dispense with such unpleasantries? Since both parties are doing an equally important share, what could be more fair than a fifty-fifty split?”
Brad sat back and considered the offer. It seemed Picard was a man who liked to cut through the bull. But to accept his offer hastily, and without proper examination, was foolish.

“I'll need a day to consider your proposal and go over it with my crew. I'm sure a man such as yourself can appreciate a thing like that.”
Picard smiled knowingly. Bradacus was using his own words against him, showing himself to be a person who understood the art of manipulation. He would truly make a powerful ally.
“Of course,” Picard agreed pleasantly. “I'll be here tomorrow, at the piano, when you're ready.”
Bradacus nodded and rose from his seat. He walked out from the room and Zee immediately ordered another drink, this time from the barkeep. 
“Whaddya think?” Leaking Pan asked Brad, leaning against the wooden bar.
“I think it's worth considering.”
A dame in the far corner suddenly caught Leaking Pan's eye. She was sitting alone, dressed in black leather, her hair dyed a bright blue. But what really stood out was the katana blade at her side. What was she, some kind of ninja? Things kept getting stranger and stranger. He ordered a sarsaparilla, the better to observe the odd girl without appearing suspicious. 
With a creak, the front doors swung open and a young girl of no more than sixteen entered. She was dressed from head to toe in the finest cowgirl wear a person might own. The sight of her reminded Bradacus of horses and he growled instinctually. To his surprise, the young girl sauntered straight to the barmaid, calling her mom.
“My dearest Rachael!” Dream Noir greeted her daughter, bending over to kiss her on the cheek. “How'd you fair in the contest?”
“First place!” Rachael beamed. “Ain't no one shoot straighter than Rachael Noir!”
Cute, Brad thought, but he'd seen enough. He wasn't here for any damn family reunion. He and his boys had matters to discuss. It was time to press on.
Settling their bill, Bradacus tipped Dream Noir generously. She was a mother, after all.
“Do come again, you hear?” Dream winked at Brad.
He slapped her playfully on the behind before heading toward the swinging doors.