"Dingo" 6/20/2063 (Shadowrun)
Didn’t think I’d ever set foot back into this shit hole for a good long while. All good things must come to an end. I wasn’t particularly happy with coming back to Seattle, but my time in Denver did me some good. A lot of good, actually. It gave me time to get away from all the bullshit in Seattle, time to lay low and forget about the living soap opera that was Seattle.
Shatter and I had a pretty good thing going in Denver, I’d cut deals with some of the chop shops and repair shops in Denver and in return we’d get them parts at discount rates. I wasn’t expecting something as big as what happened to fall into my lap, but life is full of surprises, ain’t it? Turns out, I ran into a member of the Italian mafia in a bar one night, started to chat me up. I’d never heard of the family before, but he wanted a driver, and frankly, there ain’t a better driver around in any city. So I agreed, and thus began my adventure in Denver.
It started out easy enough, moving people or cargo from point A to point B, but eventually, things started to get a little more complicated. We had moved out of the black and white, and into the gray. Kidnappings and assassinations began to come into play, and I was expected to get these Italianos outta Dodge when the job was done and/or when the shit hit the fan.
My time in Seattle had done quite a number on my morals. What I used to think I would never ever do, I find myself doing on a daily basis, and not even flinching. Part of that scares me. Scares the hell out of me. But you have to be ruthless in this business if you want to survive, and there’s no work for pussies.
“The fuck you mean you don’t have the shipment?”
“I mean it isn’t here yet! We need more time!”
I was behind the wheel, keeping my mouth shut while my colorful passenger tried to get what we came here for. I was used to this by now, and I had a reputation of not saying much. I liked it that way, really. It gave me an excuse not to talk to some of these assholes. Sure, some of them were alright guys and gals, but for the most part, they were all annoying dick-wavers, which is part of what I wanted to escape in Seattle. Ego’s everywhere, unfortunately.
“Listen, you have that drek with you. Tomorrow. Or things are gonna get bad for you, real bad. Understand?”
“Yeah. Yeah. I got it, okay? I’ll get it as soon as I can.”
“No. Not as soon as you can, tomorrow. I’ll be back same time tomorrow, and if it ain’t here. There’s gonna be problems.”
I was tapped on the shoulder.
“Get us outta here.”
I pressed the clutch and shifted into first, slowly spinning the wheel and turning to take us out of the parking lot. Shattering glass. I already knew what was happening, it didn’t take a genius to figure it out.
“Shit! Go, go, go!”
“Tha fuck you think Ah’m doin’, jackass? Abidin’ by tha speed limit?” I retorted in a husky tone. I laid on the gas, my left foot pressing the clutch again to shift. The engine roared at me as I peeled out of the parking lot, bouncing out of the incline of the parking. I hit the highway and didn’t look back, keeping my head low as more echoing cracks could be heard behind us.
After that I knew it was time to get out, I wasn’t a member of the family, only a freelancer. No excess baggage, no problem. I let the guy I had talk to originally know that I was moving on. I got paid, no questions asked, and I walked.
So, here I am once again, back in Seattle. Back in my shitty apartment, drinking whiskey, smoking cigarettes, and downing sleeping pills. Dingo’s back, and my car’s better than yours.
