Journal of Honcho Biggs - Chapter 18

Chapter 18 of the Journal of Honcho Biggs, titled "Old Wounds".

Old Wounds
Patterings of gunfire in the distance and fires burning in barrels greeted us as we arrived in west Freeside. We were leaving Kings' territory, so I was holding my submachine gun pretty tightly. Niner did as well. Though the Cooking Boys had gained control over west Freeside, there was still pockets of independent gangs here and there, looking to beat up anyone that had anything valuable on them. Like water. Probably should've negotiated more for the job. Another lesson: never sell yourself short. In fact, sell yourself long, always vouch for more than your worth.

Hopefully, the Crimson Caravan logo on the water would keep any miscreants away, in fear of dealing with the hired guns and mercenaries the company unleashed on those that dared cross them. Plus, the Caravan was supplying for the squatters here. Hopefully none would be stupid enough to bite the hand that feeds them.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the water tower came into view. It was a grey, metallic thing, pumping...water. I don't know why I'm explaining what a water tower is, I'm sure most of you know what it looks like. Actually...maybe not.

We stood below it, with some anti-Kings graffiti greeting us, explaining what the squatters did and are still doing to the Kings' mothers and sisters...and brothers. Alrighty, then.

It was pretty quiet as we waited for these associates to arrive. Could've swore I saw a glimmer of light from the scope, but it was probably just the trick of the light coming from the shiny parts of the water tower. Plus, I doubt anyone in Freeside has the caps for a sniper rifle.

A man came walking out from an alley, assault rifle across his back. An assault rifle? Nobody in Freeside should be packing that kind of heat...except...

No. It could've have been.

But then as he got closer, I saw him more clearly. Freshly cut hair, dressed in leather armor. Pistols at his hips. Angel halo tattoo on his neck.

It was. It really was.

Now, I ain't one for talking 'bout personal stuff, especially with people I ain't ever gone see. But, I guess the history here adds to the story. But I ain't looking to reveal too much about myself. I say never let someone know too much about you, or he'll hold it over you 'cause its your weakness.

But halo tattoos. I know them when I see them. It had to be them. Someone I hadn't seen since I was a kid.

"Another water shipment. Perfect," the man said, as if he didn't have a care in the world. He wore a smug grin, a smugness I hadn't seen since he gunned down Jed Bear.

I collected my thoughts. "Yeah...yeah, Crimson Caravan. Water." I motioned to Niner, who began taking it off his back.

Frank held his hand up. "You guys look new. So I guess you ain't got the memo," he said, lighting up a smoke. "We - I, don't carry shit. Grunt work is all you."

Niner looked at me to ask what this guy's problem was. His problem was he committed sins two decades ago that he never answered for.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Frank asked, getting impatient. Niner had the water back on his pack, but he looked at me, waiting for me to lead. But I didn't move. My hand was slowly reaching behind my back.

"Your friend, here," Frank said, exhaling. "He retarded or something? What doesn't this fuck understand?" He turned around. "Now let's get a move on-"

The bullets came flying out of my submachine before I even realized what was happening. Frank didn't even have time to be shocked. He was just laying in a pile of blood on the ground.

I wiped sweat of my forehead. "What the FUCK?" Niner asked, grabbing my collar. "Biggs, what's going on?"

I couldn't answer. Only thoughts of burning buildings came to my head.

"Hold up, both of you!" A voice cried out. Niner reluctantly let go of my collar as we both looked up. A man wearing a duster was standing, aiming a sniper rifle down at both of us. So there had been a sniper.

"Get in here, now!" He ordered. "Before they find out about this!" I willed my legs to run.