OOC: Still friends, right? :blush:
--Evening--
--Greyditch--
--Nikita--"Oh, right. Yeah, I thought we had an understanding. Sorry about that." The blond seemed to yawn. She turned and walked out of the diner, motioning Nikita towards her shop. "I had no intention to short change you."
Sure. We just let every pretty girl walk away and promise to pay later. That’s how we stay in business. . . . The woman walked over to her shop, unlocked the door, and let Nikita inside.
"Here we are," she cheerfully announced "Like I said, I wasn't trying to rip you off. It's no excuse, but let's just say I had an extremely stressful weekend. I'm not fully recovered from it yet."
Whatever. This - this is why I hate blonds. . . Nikita scanned the interior, "what are you going to trade?"
The woman waved at a small collection of toasters, radios, and lamps arranged neatly on a metal shelf.
"All in perfect working order, wiring completely brand now and reconfigured. They're worth about ten caps each." The blond leaned into Nikita, towering over her. "I get what you people do. You're talented, too, with the palm reading ordeal. I have no idea what you told Brandy, but the girl's innocent as can be, and shame on you for selling her that Jet.”
Nikita's jaw dropped.
You're mocking my reading? Who the hell do you think you are miss ‘I don’t have a cap to my name.’ Shame on me?!?“I bet if you gave some of these radios a new coat of paint you could sell them to people as enchanted,” the blond continued, “like they'll receive messages from God himself, or similar."
And now you’re mocking Zardoz!"What do you say?" The blond smiled.
Nikita studied what the woman had taken off of Zardoz's wagon. She had placed the various items of clothing on a table inside of the shop. A powder blue tank top, a black camisole, and a zip-up hoodie. She had taken a pair of denim shorts and a pink tee off of the wagon as well – and was wearing them now.
"I say your shop is full of crap, and you should watch your [censored] mouth – you – you big tree!" Nikita spat, "I don't want your junk. If you don't like my reading or Zardoz’s wagon - then find somewhere else to shop.”
Nikita snatched the clothes off of the table while the blond looked on, incredulous. She then walked over to a shelf and took two lamps.
"
No sale," Nikita hissed, "I'm taking our stuff back and I’m taking these lamps for the palm reading. You can keep what you’re wearing now."
Nikita opened the shop door and slammed it behind herself. She walked down the street frowning at first, but before she made it back to the wagon, she was smiling.
That – that was awesome. . . she was speechless. . .I – I’m a good actress. . . --Evening--
--Greyditch--
--Pawnee--
Pawnee picked up a stone and tossed it out of the window of his house. He’d been sitting alone for almost an hour. The effects of the odd moonshine had fully worn off, but the pain in his arm hadn’t let up. It was mind numbing. He decided to go look for Ryler or Zardoz to get some more med-x when it was too much to tolerate.
Buck followed Pawnee downstairs and outside. Zardoz’s wagon was parked on the street. It looked closed for the night. On the back of the wagon was the girl from earlier. The crier, Nikita. She was smoking a cigarette.
Pawnee walked right up to her and coughed to get her attention.
Nikita hadn’t noticed him. She was still caked in makeup and was now smoking a cigarette.
“I need to see Zardoz,” Pawnee croaked.
Nikita blithely pointed over her shoulder at the boarded-up wagon while taking a drag, “we’re closed for the night.”
“It’s an emergency,” Pawnee moaned. He pointed at his empty sleeve, “my arm. Its killing me. I need something for my arm.”
Nikita looked like she was about to say something but then scrunched her face. She snuffed out the cigarette.
“Wait here,” she knocked on the back of the wagon and then entered it.
Pawnee sat down in the street. His head was swimming. His arm hurt so bad, he wanted to cry.
Zardoz ducked out of the wagon. His hair was matted and greasy. He was still wearing his suit, but now it looked a bit crumpled, like he had just slipped it on.
“I was told there was an emergency?” Zardoz smoothed out his sleeves, “what’s going on?”
Pawnee pointed to his arm, “the pain. . .I can’t take it. I – I need more med-x. Please. I know you’re closed, but it hurts really bad.”
“Let me take another look at it.”
Pawnee yelped as Zardoz rolled up his sleeve. His stub was blistered and throbbing.
“That’s not good. . .,” Zardoz muttered. He looked up at Pawnee and smiled, “nothing to get
too worried about. Looks like a slight infection on top of the pain. If you give me a few minutes I could whip up a topical antibiotic.”
“What?”
“Just wait here.”
Zardoz disappeared inside of the wagon for several minutes and then emerged with two cups. One cup had a red liquid in it and the other a blue powder. He emptied the powder into the liquid and stirred the mixture with a glass rod.
It bubbled and hissed. A cloud of foul smoke spewed out of the cup and Zardoz began to cough.
“That’s why we do this part outside,” Zardoz hacked, ‘Okay,” he scooped his hands into the gooey mixture and slathered it onto Pawnee’s exposed arm.
“Oww! [censored]!”
“All done,” Zardoz recoiled from him, “there’s an anesthetic in there too. It should go numb in a few seconds.”
Pawnee’s arm felt cold. There was no more pain. He looked at the green goo spread across his wound.
“What was that?”
“Broc Flower, med-x, turpentine, vodka, invigorating elixir, cazador venom,” Zardoz smiled, “and a few other
secret ingredients. . . .my father was a chemist in the Followers of the Apocalypse. Quite a charismatic preacher as well. He gave me a chemistry set when I was five years old, and ever since then, I’ve been perfecting my own form of alchemy.”
Pawnee only half understood. He nodded dumbly and then stared down at his stump, moving it up and down in awe.
“I’ve been making good progress on your prosthesis,” Zardoz added, “I’ll add the concoction I just gave you and a few needles of med-x for when that wears off to your final bill. You. . .you
are good for it?”
Pawnee nodded, “I got it. And you have my power fist.”
“Splendid. Collateral.” Zardoz went to turn away, but stopped immediately, “by chance, do you know someone named ‘Pawnee?’ I have a letter from Canterbury Commons that I’ve yet to deliver to him.”
[censored]! Who could be writing me? What do I do?“I – I,” Pawnee stammered, “I know him. Yeah. Give me the letter and I’ll take it to him.”
“Okay,” Zardoz handed it to him, “I abhor the couriorial aspect of being a traveling merchant, but can’t turn it down - all these pyrotechnics can get quite expensive.”
“Don’t worry. We’re good friends,” Pawnee smiled, snatching the letter from him, “and thanks for the. . .the goo you put on me.”
Zardoz bowed and disappeared inside of his wagon.
Pawnee walked over to the curb. When he was sure he was alone, he tore the letter open.
Pawnee,
I’ve been aksin around bout Bittercup since we met. A caravaner named Crow said he saw her last week. She’s at Tenn Penny Tower. She’s a slave. Thought you’d want to know that.
– Machete.
» Fri May 13, 2011 4:53 am 
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