Ooc: Having been recently asked to analyse the story threads here so far, I must say that they are surprisingly complex and very intersting: several are intertwining already.
IC: Rackleg tore his gaze away from the Oddfather's poster. A chill ran up, then back down his hunched back. I have a bad feeling about this, he thought. Life as an outlaw had taught him much about surviving in rough neighbourhoods, and this particular chill usually preceded people dying around him, and excessive pain for himself. The clerk was still nowhere to be seen, and muffled cries and thumps emminated from the back room. The chinkling sound of breakeing glass resounded about the room. Then Rackleg heard a voice.
"Mob scum! I am insulted. You know how much trouble your boy Lenny caused us? You want him back, you pay more, we know your boss can afford it, and we ain't afraid o' him!"
Then he heard another voice. "You think we should teach him a lesson?"
"Nah, let's send a message. Right to the top."
This ominous statement was quickly followed by a spattering noise, some panicked gargling, and a wet thud. This told Rackleg three things: that these feds were crooked, that the mob would soon be descending on this station, and that the deaths had already begun. He reached up to the poster board and tore off as many posters as he could with the one grab. He stuffed them in his pocket and cocked his semi-auto. There was about to be a whole miniture hell opening up right where he stood, and Rackleg knew it.
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