Category: Fiction

Jumping Ship

“Man, used to be, if a driver didn’ show up to a Syndicate job,” Dixie said, “they’d track his ass down’n break his legs for us.”

“Seriously,” Cleo agreed. “What are we even paying them for anymore? We shouldn’t have to pull this fucking 1930’s shit.”

The job was technically successful, but it had been a logistical disaster. The driver assigned to their crew had never shown. They had tried to hold out, and their lookout had been shot and killed in the street. Once the two of them realized they were on their own, they’d had to improvise. They fought their way to the parking lot of the bank, a pitiful two bags of cash between them. Dixie held off the cops while Cleo hot-wired a car, and they made a sloppy escape. Not being getaway drivers themselves, and therefore not having a git prepared, it was a miracle they managed to lose the cops. They’d made a lot of handbrake U-turns and finally stashed themselves in an alleyway while the cops flew by.

“We need to get out of this car. It’s hot as hell now,” Cleo said, getting out. She peeled her nitrile gloves off and stuffed them on her pants pocket. She then began peeling her Syndicate-required domino mask off, the eyelash glue holding it on tugging at her skin and leaving little rubber cement-like blobs in the mask’s wake. Dixie yanked the bags of cash out of the backseat, tossed them out, and then followed her example.

“Lose the jackets too,” Cleo said, shrugging out of hers. “The less Syndicate we look, the better.”

Dixie pulled her jacket off begrudgingly.

“They make us pay for these,” she complained, holding it out to Cleo’s outstretched hand.

“Tough shit,” Cleo said, tossing them both back in the car. She then started rolling up her sleeves and loosening her tie. Dixie chose instead to undo her ponytail, lose the tie altogether, and untuck her shirt, tying the tails into a crop top. Syndicate operatives were required to wear a very strict and tidy uniform, so the more disheveled they looked, the less suspicious they would be if they were spotted.

Cleo gave Dixie a once over, snorted at the slapdash shirt re-imagining, but ultimately accepted the change in appearance. They both collected their duffel bags and sneaked several alleys away from the ditched car before stopping to decide how to proceed.

“What’re we gonna do now?” Dixie asked, setting her bag down and sitting on it. “I mean, we can call the Syndicate and tell them to send someone, but we wouldn’t be here in the first place if they could arrange a fuckin’ ride worth a damn.”

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1850 TF2: By the Book

The Soldier was grandstanding. Again. This happened at almost every meal. They would all sit around the camp fire, eat their rations, and Soldier would tell them all about fighting battles in the Mexican-American War. They generally just let him speak, but today…

“Every conflict has its causalities,” Soldier said in conclusion of today’s tale of patriotic heroism. “I lost a boot that day. I kicked Santa Anna’s ass so hard it got stuck in there so he got to keep it.” He put on a look of great solemnity and gave his lost boot a moment of silence.

Spy, though certainly disciplined enough to have contained his disbelief like any other day, chose not to on this one. It escaped him in the form of a skeptic snort.

“Oh yeah?” Soldier said, glaring across the fire at him. “And what would a Chinaman know about fighting wars, Chopsticks?”

Spy sneered and said, “The Chinese wrote the book on war.”

HELLO

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 I cut my hair like this as a joke. I'll finish it after dinner.  Not bad for my first time making a whole Thanksgiving dinner.
 Simon got me this fridge magnet as an early Christmas present. He said he couldn't hold on to it for a whole month. I fkn died laughing.  My makeup held up pretty well despite getting shot in the eye with a water gun at the #rockyhorrormovieparty at the Alamo @drafthouse. Nearly lost a contact. Maybe clarify that prop water guns are not to be used to shoot other patrons next time. Was very fun otherwise although I feel bad leaving such a mess behind. And Kelly, ya dumb broad, if you're too drunk to hit your friend who's four seats away, you're too drunk to be shooting your friends at all.

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    thewisecrackingstwenties:

    “To be good is to be forgotten. I´ll be so bad l´ll always be remembered” - Theda Bara

    Although she was not the first vamp, she was the first major, international vamp, joining the ranks of such stars as Pickford and Chaplin. 

    12/18/17

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