Uncle George's Tales II Food Fight

UNCLE GEORGE'S TALES

II

FOOD FIGHT

Spoiler warning: First Run contains the updated adventure "Food Fight". It originally appeared in the Shadowrun Sourcebook (1st Edition) Don't read this until you've played that or you'll know more than you should.

by shapcano

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Spilling through holes under chain link fences, scrambling out of discarded packing crates, disgorged from tiny basement windows of abandoned tenements and materializing out from under the permanent dark of the sprawl's countless overpasses, the sea of urchins gathered with greater stealth than a herd of devil rats. The intervening 6 weeks since his last visit had enhanced rather than diminished the storyteller's reputation, and the two magical words "Uncle George" were more than enough to move the daily search for food to secondary importance. "Uncle George", evoking visions of fantastic stories as well as free mulligan stew, was to the street kids what "Santa Claus" had been to Great Grandparent's Grandparents. Only the harsh discipline of survival on the street prevented giddy expression of delight at this wonder.
Dorothy Lynn, a tiny waif whose interaction with the storyteller had gained her unlooked for notoriety, was having a particularly hard time restraining her excitement at the thoughts of another story accompanied by free food. It was she who had spearheaded the drive to collect whatever of value could be found in order to pay the graybearded hobo. When the other streeters had initially rejected the idea, little Dorothy Lynn had pointed out that someone as wiz as Uncle George could go wherever he wanted and if the kids of Tremont Avenue didn't do something for him, maybe some kids all the way over on 140th street or way down on Lorcom Lane would, and that would be where he would spend most of his time. Wisely swallowing her other thoughts about fairness and repaying kindness when she saw the positive reaction to her initial argument, the large eyed waif had played up the need to offer the hobo something good to prevent the him from just avoiding the entire area. The four creds in scrip she clutched in her tiny hand were, in her mind, the greatest fortune anyone had ever given out, and she, by popular acclaim, was to be the one to bestow the largess on the storyteller!
The old man noted the growing crowd of small bodies as he searched for scraps of wood for his fire. He was gratified to see that, as soon as the kids saw what he was up to, they silently began collecting pieces themselves. He smiled to himself at the excited whispers which ran through the throng as he looked into his heavy covered stewpot. A conspiratorial wink followed by the application of an ancient zippo to the kindling gave his audience time to gather in a semi-circle around the old man.
"So. I see you pups are back to mooch more of an old 'bo's stew and maybe listen to a tall tale, neh?"
Uncle George was gratified but surprised that the enthusiastic agreement he got was completely silent. The hobo noticed, as he scanned the bobbing sea of nodding faces the intense stare of one tiny listener and with the memory of the showman he was, smiled directly at the "pup with balls" who had kept his language simple the last time he told a tale in this area. The intensity of his audience's attention decided the graybeard on the story he would tell.
"Awright now. Tonight you're gonna need ta use your imagination. You're gonna have ta ferget the breeze that rips through the lots and the temperature drops that leave ya shivering. Forget yer blankets and coats and wakeup chills. This story takes place in the dog days of summer. Hot, hot, hot summer. Sticky, miserable, standing-still-sweating summer. A time when the air roasts but doesn't move, when laying down means the back of your neck coats the pillow, when smiling is just too damn much work. Hot, endless, too-draining-to-move-too-hot-to-stand-still summer."
"Now, in the midst of this miserable heat, in Seattle, young Sticks (you remember Sticks, dontcha?) well, he was tossin and turnin because it was just too hot to sleep. With all of the windows open, every street noise echoed through his bedroom and peace was tougher to find than a free sandwich.. With the screech of yet another alley cat ringing in his ears, the teenager threw himself out of bed, slipped on some sneakers, grabbed his cigarettes and keys and headed down to the stuffer shack."

*********

4:18 in the morning, and I've got to have a squishypop. The Escrimador thought with disgust. At least there's fraggin AC in the store. Maybe if I cool down I can grab a shower and get some sleep, he thought as he lit up.
Entering the stuffer shack, force of habit made him notice the other shoppers. An obese woman in a floral dress was shopping with her very talkative son, Must work some strange shift the teenager concluded as he thought about family shopping at 4 in the morning. Either that or they were as hot as me. That AC does feel good. The teen was so distracted by the sudden reprieve from the oppressive heat that neither the long-coated muscular character talking to the toasters, nor the leather clad couple shopping for pet food made more than a fleeting impression. Being young and male, the come-hither smile from the sexy slurpee-sipping girl in the halter top and skimpy cutoffs, did register, but the long coat and high heels the young woman wore marked her as both some kind of wannabe shadowrunner and a strange ranger. The ganger with the katana chatting up the girl at the checkout merited a wide birth, but Sticks had instinctively cut down an aisle when he saw that individual, as street sense marked the character as trouble to be avoided.
AH, thank the powers, they still have bongo-berry-blast, the youth thought as he pulled the cellophane-wrapped frozen confection from the freezer section. Setting his burning cigarette on the corner of the HoloQuick Copy machine in the magazine alcove which abutted the freezer, Sticks' found his mouth watering as he unwrapped the squishypop. Before he could get the first taste of the bight blue icy treat a shotgun blast rang out.
*Ka-BLAM* "I am the King of the sprawl and it's time to collect taxes. Gimme everything you got, you drek-eating slime!" *Ka-BLAM* Click-clack *Ka-BLAM*
As Sticks dropped prone, his squishypop slid out of his hand. Peeking down the aisle, he could see that the shouting dude with the shotgun, (also in a longcoat) had blasted the security cameras and was moving over the counter so that he was behind the clerk who was currently being threatened by the ganger with the sword. Realizing he only had a few seconds before the (obviously) planned robbery began dealing with each of the customers, Sticks cursed himself for leaving his doss in only a t-shirt and shorts, without any weapons. Since nobody was masked, the teenager assumed that there was a very good chance that the gangers had decided on the easy way to permanently silence witnesses.
All right, he thought quickly, They probably took out the panic buttons so forget the star unless somebody makes a pre-dawn donut run. Assume they don't figure on leaving witnesses. First, I need a distraction....
Reaching up for a drag on his cigarette, Sticks looked at the magazine alcove and had an idea. Tucking the lit cig into a book of matches, he placed the "time bomb" into the corner of a glossy graphic novel at the bottom of the rack. Moving to the automotive products aisle, the Escrimador was thinking Ok, Now I need a weapon. I've probably got another minute or two.... when, glancing back, he saw the "Force Team 5" magazine erupt as the matchbook ignited. Drek! I didn't think it would go that fast! Turning back to see if anyone had noticed the budding fire, Sticks' eye was caught by the "Amazing Ronco long- handled flexigrip super-socket kit. As seen on Trid!" Quickly ripping off the clear plastic display cover, the teenager hefted the foot and a half long piece of chrome-plated alloy thinking This will do as a weapon. Now I just need.......
*RRRRRING.....RRRRRRRING.......RRRRRING..........RRRRINGGG* As the bell of the fire alarm began tolling, Sticks thought DREK! So much for that great plan! Well.......... if the store is hooked up to the fire department, then we should......
"FRAG! What the frag is that?! Who the frag set off an alarm?!" the ganger behind the counter screeched.
At that moment, to the accompaniment of the ringing fire alarm, the stores' sprinkler system kicked on, dousing the fire in the magazine section as well as everything else in the store. The two problems inherent in sprinkler systems were quickly brought home to the StufferShack's occupants. First, although the small fire was contained before it ever served it's purpose of distracting the gangers, the sprinkler system had no way of knowing that it's work was done, and so continued dowsing everything in the store. This relentless downpour would continue until some responsible (meta) human turned off the sprinkler valve and reset the detector that had gone off. The second problem involved the array of electrical appliances and video games in the store. None of these items was intended to operate in the rain and the immersion in the heavy spray, beyond voiding their warranties, caused electrical shorts which tripped enough circuit breakers to cut all power in the store.
The emergency lighting system, like the fire alarm, was battery powered and as it activated the store became a bizarre maze. The glare of the wall mounted emergency lights made for impossible brightness wherever their Halogen lamps shone, but also created pools of impenetrable darkness wherever their beams were blocked. Catcher, the gang leader and erstwhile "King of the sprawl" suddenly found himself in an unexpectedly difficult "tax collecting" environment.
Catcher screamed for silence amidst the cacophony, as if his shouted expletives might silence the ringing fire alarm, or Static's (the muscular ganger in the long coat talking to the appliances) impassioned plea that his electrical friends come back to talk to him, or Mrs. Needles' (the obese shopper in the floral dress) wails of terror, or Louis Needles' (the incessantly chattering child) endless questions about the ringing and the robbers and the lights.
Not only did his shouts for quiet fail to accomplish their goal but they were interpreted as license for Zany (the slurpee-sipper in the halter top) to join in shrieking for silence, which, in turn, set Wiley (the gang's shaman, a fur coated native American) to howling to his totem, Coyote.
As the din grew, Sticks opened one of the plastic bottles of motor oil from the automotive aisle and poured it into the stygian blackness at the base of the display. At this juncture, Catcher discharged his weapon into the ringing fire bell, causing an island of silence to arise amidst the din. Before the next wave of noise could swamp the calm, SlicerDicer (the ganger with the katana) said "We gotta move, boss. All dese shacks are hooked ta local firehouses. We got about 5 before da flashin lights pull up."
"FRAG! MOTHERFRAGGINNN........FRAG!!!!!" Catcher responded, before he began insanely giggling.
SlicerDicer saw this as authorization to go with the next step of the gang's plan and grabbing the mike at the cashier's checkout stand announced over the PA "You fraggers wanna live, get your hoops up ta checkout right fraggin now! Anybody who don't move is gonna get extremely dead in one fraggin hurry."
"Ahhh, Blow me." Sticks called out from the end of aisle 2 nearest the magazine rack.
SlicerDicer, knowing that this challenge might mean the difference between a successful and an unsuccessful robbery, immediately charged towards the source of this disrespectful voice. Sticks did not see the gangers signal to his confederate to begin moving along the frozen food cases, cutting off retreat in that direction.
Ducking around the end of the aisle, Sticks waited with super-socket wrench in hand for the charging ganger. Something about the darkness at the end of the aisle must have alarmed SlicerDicer because, in spite of the 3 feet of razor sharp steel in his hand, he attempted to stop his run before he ventured too far into it. Unfortunately, although his right foot obeyed his command to stop, his left, which hit the oil slick, continued sliding forward at great speed. The ganger's exclamation of "WHOAAAAA" quickly became a wail of pain as, flailing for balance, he did an involuntary front split. The net effect of this seemingly minor mishap was that SlicerDicer's swinging katana cut neatly through through both boot and rapidly moving foot. The wail, in turn, became a breathless moan as the full split hit the ganger's suddenly stretched and completely unprepared groin.
Sticks' sympathetic grimace as he heard the effect of his trap became a look of alarm as behind him a voice said "You heard da word, sucker. Get up to da checkout."
The teenager turned slowly saying "Bu,bu,bu,but mister, tha, that guy, uh, wit da sword, he uh......" and gestured at the other side of the aisle. Spike, the newest member of the gang, had enough street sense not to be completely fooled and instead of looking where the empty hand pointed, immediately zeroed in on the socket wrench in his victim's other hand.
"DROP IT!" Spike yelled and was quite gratified with the clatter as the wrench hit the floor. "Don't try any shit, pal" the ganger warned as the Ares Predator in his hand waved Sticks towards the checkout counter. Sticks raised his hands and reluctantly began moving up the aisle.
When Spike heard the noise of someone rolling on the floor on the other side of the aisle, he risked a look at the break where household goods gave way to soaps and detergents. SlicerDicer, curled into a fetal ball of pain, made enough noise for the newest Chiller Thriller to give some credence to the previous report about "the guy with the sword". Listening carefully as he attempted to pierce the blackness of the shadows on the floor, he asked "Slicer? Dat you man? You ok?"
A pair of soft pops brought the ganger's attention back to the citizen he was herding to the checkout counter. Sticks had used the distraction to grab 2 cans of "Black Death Industrial Strength Roach Spray with IMPROVED BF-972 As seen on Trid!". The popping sound was caused by the quick removal of the cans' tops and Spike attention shifted just fast enough for him to get a facefull of the poisonous bug spray. The toxic gas immediately began to burn eyes and nasal lining and his involuntary inhalation of surprise served only to draw the noxious cloud further into his lungs. Spike's dropping his handgun in order to clear his eyes, supplied Sticks with both a weapon of greater range than his previous choice of socket wrench, and a convenient bludgeon for ushering Spike out of the world of the conscious. The added bonus of this sudden departure from consciousness was that Spike's suddenly sleeping form dropped heavily across SlicerDicer's injured foot, bringing that worthy agony great enough to cause his head to swim. The quick move by the injured ganger to push the knocked-out newbie off his maimed foot, required the use of recently ripped groin muscles, causing SlicerDicer's newfound nausea to noisily manifest itself.

*******

"Now remember," Uncle George said as he began dishing up his stew, "It's miserably hot and sticky outside. The stuffer shack had some nice AC, but when the sprinklers made the appliances blow out the circuits and the place lost power, the AC stopped. That means that the sprinkler is still goin, but the air inside the shack ain't movin. It's gettin stale. Now, think about the smells. Smoke from the fire, bug spray, oil, vomit, blood..... now, on top of that, ya got that stink of sweat, cause, everybody who is getting robbed is scared that they're also gonna get wacked and all the Chiller Thrillers are in long armored coats in da heat. On top a that ya got all the noise from the wailing of fat old Mrs. Needles, her pup's jabbering, Static talkin ta da dead toasters, Zany repeatin whatever Catcher yells out (witout his psycho giggling), Wiley howlin like he's on da lone prairie......lotta noise. AND the emergency lights got some areas bright as noon in the desert and other areas blacker than a corper's heart. Bad scene, pups, very bad scene."
The storyteller noted with some pride that his verbal pictures were gripping enough to keep the children riveted. Every street kid was so caught up in imagining the scene that several seemed oblivious to the stew he was dishing up. Smiling to himself, he suddenly exclaimed, "Well, let's just take a break here so that everyone can eat up!" The obvious distress with which this proclamation was greeted made the old man relent. "Awright, awright. I guess I'd better keep goin."

*********

Seeing how well the darkness had served him in his first ambush, Sticks aimed his newly acquired Predator at an emergency light battery pack and pulled the trigger, plunging an area of the store into total darkness.
"YOU DON'T HURT DA LIGHTS!" Static roared as he charged between aisles. The hugely muscled human's bellowing indicated he was furious at Sticks unprovoked attack on the poor emergency light, and the teenager assumed that the shotgun in the ganger's hands would be dealing out painful retribution unless he acted fast. Sticks squatted into an area of shadow and once again attempted an E&E (evade and escape) maneuver. Unfortunately the Escrimador had underestimated the speed and determination of the enraged ganger's headlong charge and the two collided in the darkness. Despite the difference in size and momentum, both combatants were sent sprawling, both lost the weapons in their hands and both immediately began struggling to recover from the unexpected contact.
Sticks, once again weaponless, moved away from the point of contact and found himself between pet supplies and the small appliances with whom Static had previously been conversing. The ganger, who could not find his Defiance T-250 in the darkness, pulled the Super-Shock Stun Baton from his belt and prepared to smash his opponent. He had just activated the knock-out wand when a heavy can of dog food came flying past his head. Raising his arms to ward off the projectiles that Sticks was using as weapons, the ganger managed to fend off two more of the weighty missiles. Unfortunately, his defense against the second projectile involved the hand holding the shock baton and when the heavy can smashed edge first into the ganger's knuckles, the blow forced his hand open. The baton, no longer immune to the effects of gravity, immediately plunged floorwards and discharged as it struck the ground. Since the particular piece of floor at Static's feet contained a standing puddle from the still functioning sprinklers, the electrical charge was conveyed directly to the ganger, who dropped like a sack of dirty laundry.
Before he could congratulate himself, Sticks also dropped to the floor as he stepped back and tripped over the prone forms Jack and Angie Scatman. The Rocker wannabes had curtailed their pet food shopping when the robbery had commenced and had been silently lying in the darkness the entire time. The unexpected plus of Sticks' fall was that he was down and out of sight when Catcher's shotgun blast roared overhead and thereby avoided such potential damage as having his head separated from his body. The negative, unfortunately, involved Sticks smashing the funny bone of his right (throwing) arm as he fell. The stinging impact of elbow with aisle shelf as he tripped over the Scatmans, forced open the teenager's hand and insured that he would not be accurately flinging cans at his opponents for the remainder of the morning.
Catcher's next shotgun blast ripping by overhead combined with the groans of the tripped-over Scatmans, motivated Sticks to find a new location as soon as possible. At the same time, Catcher's screamed orders, echoed as they were by Zany's screeches, finally saw results as Wiley started to move. The Coyote shaman, soaked from both the continuous overhead shower and his own perspiration, discarded his coat and, perhaps predictably, moved towards the cold drink case. Because this was at the opposite end of the store from the aisles where the gangers had been having the problems, both Catcher and Zany were less than pleased by this and made their feelings known at maximum volume.
Sticks, attempting to shake out the pins-and-needles sensation in his arm, bent and flexed the appendage as he also moved towards the rear of the store. His only thought at this point was to make his escape from the stuffer shack and since the front door was covered by the ganger with the shotgun at the checkout counter, the store's loading door at the rear seemed the option of choice. He had gotten as far as Aisle 14 (Exotic foods) when he ducked for cover to take his bearings.
Wiley, meanwhile, attempting to find the coldest of Kafsodas to quench his thirst, tossed bottle after bottle to the floor as he tried to get to the rear of the rack. When a bottle got stuck, the shaman's frustration caused him to knock down the entire shelf of the cooler. Sticks, who could see this by peeking around the corner of the aisle, had a sudden inspiration for how he could get to the back door. With an explosive move, Sticks launched himself at the shaman's back. The move was fast enough and quiet enough that the first inkling Wiley had of trouble was when a hand on the back of his head smashed his face repeatedly into an upper soda rack. The force of the blows was eventually great enough to knock the shelf out of it's moorings, bringing it and it's content smashing down on the shelf below.
Wiley, seeing a light so bright that it made him think of his first visit to the spirit world of his totem was temporarily immune to the pain. When the light resolved itself to the flashes of individual stars and moons, however, the reality of his badly smashed face hit with the impact of a freight train. As he opened his mouth to scream he found himself thrust forward, into the cooler, and on top of the soda rack at waist height. Not being designed to support double loads of soda plus the odd coyote shaman, the rack disintegrated, as did the one below it, temporarily depriving the ganger of wind. As he groggily drew in a breath to express his pain and/or displeasure with the treatment he was receiving, he felt someone step onto the middle of his back and literally walk over him to get into the refrigerated stocking area behind the coolers.
This inconsiderate treatment would normally have earned his attacker a slow and painful death, but Wiley lost consciousness before he could administer punishment. Sticks, in using the ganger as sort of carpet through the soda cooler, also stepped on the prone ganger's head. The pain, combined with the residual effects of the damage delivered seconds earlier, knocked the shaman out cold.
Rushing to the end of the cooler compartment, Sticks threw the bolts on the stockroom door. Now the only ways the gangers could get to him was to come through the stockroom area by the manager's office or to travel over the new shaman rug in the soda cooler. Rather than wait to see if either route was selected, Sticks ducked out the door to the alley. Since the door was alarmed, a *WHOOP......WHOOP......WHOOP.....WHOOP* announced his escape to the rest of the store. The soaked Escrimador then immediately pushed a rolling dumpster in front of the door and walked down the alley. He did not look back.
Zany and Catcher spent a minute or two screaming at each other over the whooping door alarm. Eventually the plans to rob the customers were modified and the "tax collection" was applied only to StufferShack Corp. By the time this revised plan was in place, however, the fire fighters and the accompanying, contract mandated, Lone Star Patrol vehicle had arrived. For all the Chiller Thriller's impassioned rhetoric, their surrender to authority was inevitable.

*********

"Now. Since you pups know Uncle George has a reason for his stories, why don't you tell me why I tole ya this tale."

After several seconds of silence, one of the street kids said "It was rocket and....uh...nobody even got killed."

"Good. Ya liked a adventure story witout death. That's one. Anybody else?"

"Sticks was really real." Dizzy piped in "He didn't have all, ya know, weapons an guns an stuff but he just used his brains. Dat was chill."

"An da frosty thing was, he didn't like, ya know, do everything right. He messed up wit da distraction and he let dat spike guy sneak up on him and he fell down an hurt his arm." Daffy (Dizzy's enthusiastic younger brother) said. "Den he ran away, just like a real guy would. Icy."

The old man's smiling nod demonstrated his satisfaction with his audience's native wit. Before he could say more, however, Dorothy Lynn, who had been nervously fingering the scrip in her hands, abruptly stood up. The kids all got quiet as she stepped forward to make her presentation.

"Uncle George," she said, "We wanted ta show ya how much we 'preciate your comin here an tellin us whizzer stories. We collected this for you." She presented the treasure of crumpled bills with as much gravity as her tiny form could contain.

The old hobo, long accustomed to being the center of attention, realized that every child's eye was focused on his face. Desirous as he was of maintaining the persona that insured street survival, Uncle George was so deeply moved by this unexpected offering from these kids who knew real hunger, that his eyes began to fill. Blinking back a tear, the surprised old man smiled and muttered "Thank you. I......I.... uh, I..... Thank you."

Torn as he was about taking badly needed nuyen from poor kids, the old hobo knew that any suggestion that the money be used by those in greater need would be a mortal blow to the dignity of his young listeners. He also knew that if his audience was to survive the difficult years to come, dignity and self-worth would be more necessary for survival than the scraps these four creds would buy. He reverently took the bills from Dorothy Lynn whose smile became one of unalloyed joy. Her enthusiasm was so great she blurted out "An da best part of your story was dat ya made it so hot! I was sweatin! I wanna remember every word so dat when it's snowin out I can tell da story an feel dat warm!"

And so, the tradition continues. Uncle George thought with pride. I thought you might be the one, pup.

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Oh my aching heart!  How long ago did Bill write this?!  He used my name for a character and I'm just finding out now. -DS
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