#73

Lefty Sinister will get a feeling of repetition as he downs his third scotch of the day. This'll now be the third bar he's stood at today, and he hopes it'll be the last. A one-day chase after his enemy would be shocking luck. But then, he'll always beat his own boys at cards, 'cause he is (or will be) lucky; it won't even be fair for him to play against them anymore, so he'll quit. He is, or will be, very nice to them. Closest thing he'll have to a family, those losers. Fox will have gone and spilled family blood; and that'll have been cleaned up posthaste.

Which is what he'll be here to do. He'll have picked up a sidearm from a reasonable dealer friend of his not far from here, and packed that in his trench-coat, which he'll have kept on him after they had him leave his violin case at the door. But he'll be back for that later.

He'll be waiting to finish his scotch. No sense in passin' up a good drink, especially after a sour one.

One...two...three...And scotch is finished. Time to go.

He'll pull out his pistol and shoot the bartender. Not out of any malice towards the man, he pours (or will pour) a good drink, but he'll have to get some attention somewhere. Even the seasoned Zorro regulars—probably good pals of the Inspector—will start screaming. Lefty will sit up and wave his gun around.

“No one will get hurt if you just all play ball!” he'll yell simply. “Does anyone know where Fox is?”

No one will be listening. He'll see a cute dame with a tough mug boyfriend—he will shoot him, but she won't look that shocked. He'll have seen that she has a bruise on her left cheek, with a black eye on the right side—bad news.

Now they'll be listening.

“I said t'you guys,” he'll say. “Where is Fox?!”

There'll be a pause, but no one will say anything—no one, except for a loud overhead mike which will suddenly burst noise into the room. The sound will be that of Fox's rich, smarmy-ass voice; but there's something to it. Maybe the mike will be bad or something, but it'll seem more gravelly—and yet somehow, slimier. Lefty won't be able to put his finger on it.

“So, Lefty; you've come for your boys.”

“I have, Fox. Now where are they? I know you took some of 'em back here.”

“I did indeed, Lefty—but you'll have to through a few...entangling scenarios, before you'll be allowed to free them.”

The somehow even sleazier voice of Mack Greasy, Fox's shark head, will come on. “I had quite the time designing these traps of ours, Sinister! You'll find them bamboozling, I'm afraid—you'll need to wrack your noggin, is what I'm saying. You'd better hope that your coconut is up for it—else you'll be punished. And you won't be alone, I should add.”

Fuckin' kitschy camp shark bastard.

Next it'll be Puck's turn, his insane giggle nearly driving Lefty crazy. “And the thing is, Sinister...hee, hee...we've managed to do some pretty nasty things to physics! So expect some things along the road to be...hee, hee, hee...quite impossible!”

Ugly idiot demon bird fucker.

“I'll open up the doors to the trap chambers, Lefty!” Fox will then say. “We'll even let you get your Tommy gun, if you wish for it. Just remember—family blood and all that.”

And with that, the intercom will cut out completely.

Lefty will get the uncomfortable notion that with the whole “family blood” crack—Fox has been reading his mind. Which is something the bastard does. Or will do. Bastard.

He'll grab his case, and sure enough, a door will slide open just past the corpse of the slaughtered bartender. Now it is, or will be, Go Time.