Kin and Tonic

By C.M. Rich (Magnetman)

     I wake up a few hours later to a much quieter bar. I'm still in my seat, and my rain coat is still on my back (I was wearing my Bombman gear, sans the goofy helmet, which I lazily covered up with this old coat from my human years before I headed here). I'm short on the twenty bucks I kept in my coat pocket to make the pickpockets think they got away with somethin' good, while my "city roll" was still safe n' sound in my breastplate.

     "Well, look who's back t' th' land o' th' livin'," Hardy says with a wry look on his face. He's at the end of a long, busy night, and his voice is tired and sloppy. He's doin' his barkeep thing by putting glasses back and polishing the brass of his beloved bar, of which I was occupying a large space of with my dead weight.

     "Whassa time?", I slur. Guess my voice ain't doin' much better than Hardy's. Huh. Didn't think I had all that much, really.

     "Five. You've been sleepin' like a baby fer th' last four hours."

     "Ah man.Sorry."

     I'm not sure why I apologized. I'm not the only one who took naps here, but at least I paid on time and left the lug and his crew some decent tip money. I didn't spend my money on much else, so I don't have much of an excuse not to.

     "Think nothin' of it. It is closin' time, though. You should get some sleep."

     ".Yeah.Sleep.", I echo. That's another thing I'm not big on, despite the nap I just woke up from. That'll be enough rest for me for the next two days.

     I take a few more seconds to collect my thoughts and make sure my legs aren't going to do nothin' stupid like give out me as soon as I try to use them. Luckily, I'm not as bombed as I thought I was, so I get up and help Gag flip the chairs onto the tables.

     Gag was still sore at me from our last dance, and I can't say I blame him. Next to Gutsy himself, I've got the nastiest right hook from the ol' Sinister Six, and Gag knows it for sure now. Needless to say, Gag's gonna have a hard time landin' a date anytime soon with that mug. Poor kid.

     But, I used up all of my apologies for the night, so helpin' to clean up the place will be my "I'm sorry" to the kid. Somethin' tells me a sizable tip will help out a bit more.

     I've got my back turned to the front door when I hear it open, and Hardy rattles off a quick "Sorry man, we're closed up fer th' night. Come back tomorrah."

     I ignore it, since it happens all the time. This place is so damn busy right up until closin' time that most newbies to the city make the mistake a' thinkin' it's open 24/7. It ain't til I hear Hardy repeat his prior words that I start thinkin'   

     "Hey! Are ya deaf? I said we're closed, now scat!"

     The man doesn't say anything. He just looks around the place, eyeballin' everyone and everything. I'd say he was a surprise city inspector, but the time of day and the weird ass smirk on his face tell me otherwise. We lock eyes for a brief second and I get that ol' feelin' in my chest. This guy ain't here for a drink or some friendly chatter; he's here to start shit with someone.

     "Oh good.You're here. Just as we suspected.", he utters in a half whisper while staring a hole through my eyes. I can't see his pupils from under his wide brimmed hat, which matched his dark suit and overcoat combo. His skin looks like he's been locked in a basement for th' majority a' his life, pale and dead-lookin'.

     "I ain't hard t' find, smiley. I'm either here or blowin' up some punk like yerself. Doesn't make you a rocket scientist or nothin'.", I mutter with a rare smirk.

     I look over at Hardy, who's actually looking a bit nervous. He can tell already that this is probably going to get nasty in a hurry, right here in his bar.

     "Indeed.", the stranger agrees as a really freakin' big

     Great.

     I can hear Hardy ball up those bulldozer-like fists of his as soon as he sees the sword. He's not about to just let me and Smiley go at it and just stand by. Hardy might even kick my ass if I do too much damage to his place.

     I take the half empty glass by my side and down the contents it held and bring my cig to my lips for a final drag before we commence ta' fightin'. Fightin's a pretty hollowed art in my book- you either do it right or don't do it at all.

     I thumb out my cancer stick and place it in my now-empty glass. I figure its best to try and get this dude outside if he's really serious about fightin' me, cause I sure as hell can't use my bombs in here.

     Too bad Smiley and I aren't on the same page. He hefts that Pinto-sized cleaver of his and smashes it into the hardwood floor. The one Gag had just finished sweeping. The one Hardy spent a few grand re-doing a few weeks ago after Torchman nearly burnt the place down in a cryin' fit. The big guy isn't takin' it so well.

     "You absolute sonovabitch.", he growls in a particularly frightening voice as he lumbers over to Smiley.

     I don't care who you are- a fist the size a work desk, backed by four tons of momentum, will knock your ass out. So.Why isn't this guy attempting to move? Hardy wasn't exactly the fastest kid on the ball field.

     Almost in slow motion, I watch Smiley's face get sandwiched between Hardy's knuckles and his own shoulders, his neck inconsequential at this point. His body folds up like an accordion under Hardy's weight, which proceeds to ram Smiley's now-dead body into the floor. I don't know if Hardy had a basement or not, but either way, Smiley was now residing beneath Hardy's Bar.

     ".Damn.", I say after a few minutes. "And people say I'm th' one with the temper problems."

     "Punk had it comin'.These floorboards were practically new.", was all he says in his defense. Hard to argue with him.

     Hard starts walkin' over to his bar again, presumably to make a phone call in order to get this mess cleaned up. He's stopped when both he and I hear some kinda.howl.

     ".Smiley?", I say aloud. It certainly seems to be comin' from his new grave.

     Then we both realize that it ain't no howl- it's laughter. Really.weird laughter. Like, not the kind of laughing you'd do after getting plowed ten feet under a building kinda laughin'. It seems ta have more of an effect on Hardy, who's visibly cringing before he notices that I'm noticin'.

     Sure enough, Smiley clambers outta the floor. Kinda like Eddie from oh-so-many Iron Maiden album covers. Except Eddie was much more handsome.

     Turns out Hardy doesn't have a basement afterall. Guess it makes sense, seein' as most floors would have a tough time holdin' up the big man without somethin' solid underneath. Like cement.

     "Oh, that's PERFECT!", he claims, still chucklin'. He barely has a scratch on him. I get the feelin' that tonight's gonna be one of 'those' nights. "Such.reckless emotion! You're absolutely perfect!"

     "I've been called.worse?", Hardy says with a raised eyebrow.

     I've gotta small, baseball-sized bomb in my hand by this point, hidden from view.

     I decide to do Hardy a favor by pitchin' the bomb at Smiley, blowin' his ass right out the front door. It's a small bomb, so it doesn't do much else than that. Hardy doesn't miss the chance to take it too the streets, rather than let Smiley back in for another round of extreme house cleaning. Naturally, I follow.

     We get outside and, of course, our little visitor is nowhere in sight. Yeah, why would he be? He was only smashed by the weight of an old Cadillac and blown up, so why would he be hurt?

     All we have as any indication to Smiley's whereabouts

     "I'm startin' to not like this guy very much.", Hardy observes.

     "'Startin' to'?", I shoot back.

     The laugh moves to a different location, gradually moving away from us. Calling us. Taunting us.

     "Ah. Good. An old fashioned trap. Haven't been involved in one of those in a while.", I mutter while taking another drag from a fresh cig.

     "We ain't got much of a choice, though. Last I checked, it was our job to put guys like this away.", Hard concludes. "'Sides, the sumbitch owes me a new floor."

     ".I need a new job."

     I don't know where the hell Gag ran off to when the shit hit the fan back there, but Hard yells at him to clean the place up and lock it up. Guess that means we're goin' huntin'.

     Hardy thinks for a few moments, and then taps his fingers to his helmet, activating his comm-link.

     "Hey Raj.", he shouts aloud as he attempts to awaken his fellow teammate, Snakeman. Though probably not the best thing to do- call Raijin by his much-hated nickname- I could see why Hardy called him. Snakeman was arguably THE best tracking specialist in town, a guy you'd definitely want helpin' you out if you needed to find someone or somethin' fast.

     "Ahh, piece o' garbage radios.", Hardy grumbles, apparently failing to get a hold of Snake, who may or may not be ignoring Hard's attempts at communication based on the "Raij" comment.

     I'd try callin' someone myself, if it weren't for th' fact that I haven't seen anyone from th' S6 since we disbanded. Be kinda weird ta suddenly call outta th' blue, at 5 AM no less, and ask if they wanna do some Smiley-huntin' with me. 'Sides.I don't even think they have their armor anymore, seein' as a I split before Doc Light had a chance to repo mine from me. Hey, I got things ta do, criminals ta make explode and whatnot.

     "Guess the lines are down.", I say.

     "Guess so.", is all I get from Hard, clearly annoyed that we've got to do this the old school way- by walkin' and lookin'. I get the feelin' he's worried about it a bit more than he lets on. "Old fashioned trap, huh."

     "Hey", I say as an idea comes to mind. "Try Gaunts. Isn't he usually out of the 'house'?"

     "I would, but he's on the other side of the world. Not gonna do us much good.", Hardy explains.

     "Dammit.Why's he always MIA, anyways? Seems like he's never around you guys unless he absolutely needs t' be."

     "I dunno where he usually goes, but today he's escorting some new member of ours back home."

     This surprised me. See, the Mechs were always one of the most stable teams in terms of roster. Their members rarely change these days, unlike many of the less established teams. What a lot of people fail to realize upon becoming a Robot Master is that the job sure as hell ain't a dance club. Its pretty brutal work, and if you're not ready for that you'll get burnt out real quick and head for a fast retirement. In the year I've been Bombman, I've seen maybe a dozen or two roster changes, and even whole teams start up and disappear as soon as you hear about them. Like I said.It's hard work.

     "Really. See, why didn't ya just call me? I coulda been on your team.", I sneer, obviously joking. I don't think G would want two burly, drinkin' brawlers on one team.

     "You. Right.", Hardy says, shifting his eyes away from me slowly.

     ".Let's go find this guy, Hard."

     The big guy and I meander the dark streets, lookin' for clues as the whereabouts of our smilin' new friend. To his credit, he hasn't done any damage, outside of adding a new lower level to Hardy's Bar. You'd think a guy like this would do a better job of leadin' us on if this really was a trap. Or, maybe he was just some lunatic.

     Yeah. Right. A lunatic that can make big ass swords appear out of thin air, get smashed by Thomas the Tank Engine here through a cement foundation, and get literally blown to the street, only to laugh it off. Somehow, I think asylums would have to be rethought if this guy was a common crazy.

     After 5 blocks of walking, we come across.the place. We're at the culmination of the trap, I'd guess you could say. A few buildings, flattened to the ground, is what we're greeted with as we round the corner. It doesn't occur to me until much later that I never heard the buildings go down- somethin' even a drunk like me could notice from a few miles away. At the very center of it all is some shrimp I've never seen before, and judging by Hardy's expression, neither has he.