Grandfather's Bastards

Dutch Interlude #2

Life's a Bastard

Dutch was having one of the worst days of his life, naturally right after a really good one. I thought today would be a good day… I mean, Shiva and I had something starting… and then it all went to *shit* he fumed. Jake was at home, cleaning his weapons, a pint of bitter next to the gun oil. I mean… I thought Shiva and I… oh, screw it. Just focus on getting back at that coward motherfucker Hooch he thought, grinding his teeth loud enough to be heard outside – he thought anyways.

He rolled a shoulder, stretching one of the bruises the Bastards had left on his side. C_hrist that hurt… and the little shit is too smart to go anywhere without ‘enough’ of his gang. Frakkin’ cowards…_ he thought, already working a plan on how to get them back. And without actually hurting them. Because even if they are a pack of raving psychotic asshats, they help keep the Waystation safe. They took my dignity in front of people I care about; I’ll just have to take theirs right back he thought, snapping the action on his subgun back into position with an audible ca-click. Just need to talk to Moe for a few supplies… he thought, biting his lip.

A knock at his door brought his attention up. “Yo, Dutch, you in there?” a nasally voice sounded into his shack. Dutch sighed, then looked up at the door. “It’s open Bob, come on in” he replied, grabbing a second beer and slinging it up on the table. Dutch’s… what is the word? He’s not a friend, really, but he’s not an asshole either, and we work together a lot. He saved my ass spotting that one trip down by Bars & Nob he thought, trying to figure out what as Bob entered.

Bob was 6’1” and clearly studied at the ‘be stronger than the other guy’ school of fighting, given how strong the sonuvagun was. He kept his brown hair trimmed short, brown eyes hidden behind a pair of safety glasses, and much like Dutch went almost nowhere without his body armor. Dutch and Bob had worked together a couple times previously, with Bob being one of Marco’s hardest – if not necessarily brightest – guns in the Waystation. Bob set a formidable looking shotgun down as he grabbed the pint Dutch had pulled for him.

“Heard you ran into some ugly bastards trying to pull Amos back” he said, motioning at the blotch of purple on Dutch’s face before taking a long swig of the beer. Dutch just nodded, slipping the subgun onto his back and plopping the rifle onto the table. “Yeah” he said quietly, grimacing. Bob just chuckled at that.

“Next time, don’t pick a fight with all 30 of them, dumbass” he said, clapping Dutch boy on the back. “Wait for one of them to be on the shitter, then get them with their pants down – literally” he said with a half-faked grin. Dutch paused to send Bob a death glare before extracting the bolt carrier from his rifle, then stripping out the barrel to run it through with a cleaning brush.

“Think I figured that one out, Bob” Dutch huffed as he cleaned his long gun. Dutch eyed Bob’s shotgun again, wondering what the heck his next move should be. Got a vague notion, but I’ll need to see a man about a few things for that he figured, looking back up at Bob. “Got a few other ideas on how to manage that, too, but we’ll have to see how that plays out” he said, looking back up at Bob.

The other shooter just nodded. “Figured you wouldn’t just roll over for the fuckers, Dutch. Arrogant little pricks who think the rules don’t apply because the Waystation needs them, and that goddamn group mentality they got. Get yours, ya hear, boy?” Bob said, downing the other half of the offered beer in a long pull. “Gotta get back to it. See you around, Dutch” Bob said as the big guy picked his shotgun up and headed out the door.

Dutch looked back down, brow furrowed as he reassembled the long gun. Three pounds of pressure on that trigger… he thought as he snapped the bolt carrier back into place, reassembling it fully. Dutch hefted it to his shoulder, feeling the cheek-weld, his hand supporting it perfectly. This I get. This is straightforward. Shiva… she isn’t. What the hell am I doing? he wondered, applying the three pounds of pull to the trigger. The resounding snap of a dry-fire echoed through his empty shack, the shooter feeling slightly reassured about doing the one thing he knew he was really good at. _ Better go talk to Moe_ about this he thought, a plan forming in his mind…

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