GUN SALAD

Roulette stumbled to the ground, propelled by the pitiless hands of a casino-employed enforcer. It had begun to drizzle in the short time since they’d entered the building; she could feel infrequent droplets pattering at her arms and the back of her neck as she rose, fuming, to her feet. Angry as she was, though, there was nothing for it but to swallow the emotion. Her gun had already been confiscated–it was strapped tightly around her captor’s chest, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to best him in a fistfight.

“Back against the wall,” he ordered, gesturing toward the rear wall of the casino’s loading bay. She obliged without a hint of resistance, figuring things might go over better if she didn’t put up a fuss. After all, she wasn’t the only one who’d be paying for her mistakes tonight…

As if on cue, a pair of casino staff walked Morgan out into the rain. They weren’t quite so rough with him–maybe because they expected some kind of retaliation, given his bandit-like manner of dress. He walked with confidence, too; a dangerous kind of swagger that made his presence there seem natural. Roulette wished she felt half as comfortable as he looked striding over to join her in front of the wall.

She tried to meet his eyes as he approached, setting her jaw in anticipation. No doubt he had a glare in store for her–or a few whispered words of disapproval–considering her role in fouling up their plans… Even though he had all but abandoned her to laze around in the bar. 

Sure, maybe betting money he didn’t have to cover her mounting losses wasn’t the most mature decision she could’ve made, but so what? Maybe it would teach him to stand by his word next time and actually have her back the way he’d promised.

…Or maybe there wouldn’t be a next time, because her foolish decision would end up costing them their lives.

At any rate, Morgan moved to stand beside her without saying a word or batting an eye. If he was cross with her he didn’t show it, and that somehow made it worse; like he’d accepted the fact that she’d mess things up from the jump, and did it so wholeheartedly that none of this surprised or distressed him at all.

“We expect our patrons to rack up debts to each other on occasion,” said the thug who’d ‘escorted’ Roulette from the building, coming to stand a few feet away from their place at the foot of the wall. “...But a debt to the house? This, we take pains to prevent. Normally it is impossible. Had you, young lady, not implicated this man as the one funding your activities, we would have simply thrown you out when you ran out of slugs…”

He paused to rub at his face, looking between them with obvious distaste.

“Instead, you chose to lie to us. Knowingly or not, you have embarrassed the Moukahla family, and we do not take such insults lightly…”

The two casino workers who had brought Morgan out acted on cue, reaching beneath their vests to produce a pistol each. Not the kind of whimsical, eccentric weapons a Gunslinger might tote: real pistols, loaded with ammunition designed to behave predictably–and lethally. Roulette felt herself freeze up, fingers twitching helplessly at her sides. She yearned to have Lady Luck in hand, though the gun would almost certainly have done her no good in the face of such deadly, reliable firearms.

The two men stepped forward and cocked their pistols. Roulette winced, heart pounding in her chest as she braced for an impact she couldn’t possibly fathom. The feeling was familiar to her, and no less terrifying this time around.

Instead of shooting, though, the gunman on the right rushed forward at a nod from the gangster who’d been addressing them. He moved up on Morgan, quick as anything, and brought the butt of the gun down hard on her partner’s head.

“MORGAN…!” she screamed, her eyes flying open in unfiltered shock. He slumped to the ground in an instant, fully unconscious–or worse. Tears sprung to her eyes unbidden as the assailant stooped down to gather him up. The man who’d taken aim at her stowed his gun and hustled over to help, and between the two of them they managed to heft his prone form away from the wall and toward the other end of the loading bay, where a wagon stood waiting.

Even fearful as she was, Roulette felt an all-encompassing drive to charge after them and wrest Morgan from their grasp. She knew in her heart she wouldn’t get far, though; not with the mafioso who carried her gun still watching coolly from an arm’s length away. It was when she turned her gaze back on him that she noticed a small cloud of smoke rising from the open doorway she’d been ushered through a moment ago. A heavy-set man stood there now, smoking a cigar and watching the proceedings with casual disinterest.

Only when the wagon had departed, turning out onto the darkened street and rolling out of view, did he emerge from the shadow of the doorway and make his way over to Roulette and her minder. Like most men she’d seen in Port Pistola he had a dark complexion and a shaved head, but that was where the similarities ended. His fingers were adorned with all manner of rings–many of which were set with gemstones–and he wore a bright scarlet suit that complimented the vests of the casino’s staff.

“That hers?” he drawled, eyes drifting in the direction of the bright pink SMG slung over his employee’s shoulder

“Yes sir,” the man replied. “Where a Gunslinger is involved, it is best to take no chances.”

“Pity. I had hoped it was his,” said the casino boss with a smile, putting a mouthful of solid gold teeth on display. “So many men refuse to welcome color into their lives–especially where you hail from, miss.”

“And I’m guessin’ you see it as your duty to beat ‘em bloody to compensate?” she hissed.

“If they ignore our local laws and customs, yes,” he countered. “That one we will kill. As an example. You would be meeting the same fate right now, were you not a woman.”

“Oh, how gentlemanly.” Roulette tried her best to hide her deepening worry for Morgan behind a mask of disdain, but she could tell that this man was a canny judge of character; he wasn’t the type to be taken in easily by tough talk and a stiff upper lip.

“You misunderstand. It is not out of chivalry that we spare you, but practicality. Many of our entertainers are women–on average, they simply earn more. Between you and your unfortunate friend, you have more potential for resolving your debt to us. So he is ‘out’, and you are ‘in’. You see?”

He smiled again–more widely this time–and took a deep, self-satisfied drag from his cigar.

“I’m not doin’ a thing for you or yours unless you let him be,'' Roulette growled, eyes narrowing. “He did nothin’ wrong. If you’re gonna punish anyone, punish me.”

“A touching sentiment,” he said, “But if you truly meant it, you would not have involved him in the first place. We will do as we please with him, and you will work for us until you have earned your way out of arrears. If you refuse, we will have your weapon dismantled and sold for scrap.”

That threat gave her pause. Lady Luck had been with her for years, now–her gun was the hook upon which all her dreams of vengeance hung. Without it, what would she do? Who would she be?

…But, on the other hand, who would she be if she gave up on Morgan?

She gritted her teeth, frustrated by her total lack of leverage. She’d just have to hope they wouldn’t kill him right away, and that an opportunity to escape and bust him loose from… Well, wherever they were holding him, would present itself soon.

“...Fine. Tell me what I have to do.”

“Excellent,” the man replied, grinning like a cat who’d just cornered its prey. “Then allow me to introduce myself. I am Lazar Moukahla, your new employer, but you will call me ‘sir’. The first order of business will be to assess your talents. So, tell me: what are you good at?”

What a question. Roulette thought on it for a moment, but nothing useful was forthcoming. Letting down the people I care about, she thought. Getting them killed. Failing at even the simplest tasks.

“I dunno,” she finally answered, “I’m not much of an entertainer.”

“Ah. I see. Well, in that case we could always make you a dancer…”

“A dancer?” she squeaked, incredulous. She hadn’t danced since the good old days, twirling around the sitting room trying to make her father laugh. “What kind of dancin’?”

“The kind that does not necessarily require much talent, because it is not really about the dancing.”

Roulette flushed a deep shade of red. “No. No way.”

“Well, out with it then. What will you do for us instead?.”

She took a deep breath and cleared her mind, pushing aside the negative thoughts as best she could.

That’s when it came to her.

“Alright, okay. I may have somethin’ in mind after all,” she answered. “Now, hear me out…”