AudioBoxer
Aug 8th, 2002, 10:59 AM
Nobody liked reporting bad news to The Boss, particularly when the bad news involved running away scared. But Don Giovanni's thug and driver had their duty to uphold.
"Boss," the thug said when he came into the room, "We gots bad news."
The leather-bound chair slowly rotated to face them in the dim light. Even against the size of the chair, The Boss' massive silhouette stood out. Some of his bulk was fat; most of it was muscle. The shadow of his bald head opened its mouth, which looked like it had cotton balls stuffed in the cheeks, to speak: "You know I don't like bad news."
"Yeah, and Don Giovanni liked it even less. Some guy callin' himself the Blue Shooter bumped him off while he was showin' up ta see Foxbow."
"Don Giovanni is dead?!" The Boss raised his voice. He leaned across his desk, grabbed the thug by the collar with his left arm, and lifted him off the ground. "The best friend of the Family is dead, while you were there to protect him?!"
"We . . . we thought it was Foxbow. I mean, he was blue. and it was dark and foggy and all, and he had that bow . . ."
"Hmmm," The Boss hmmmed as he put the thug down. "Did you get a closer look at him?"
"Yeah, he looked almost like Foxbow, except he didn't have those pointy things coming off of his mask."
The Boss pushed a button on his desk. It was a fake button, but he always liked to do that anyway. "I want a price put out on this Blue Shooter's head. Nobody bumps off a member of my Family unless I say so!"
"Right Boss," the thug and the driver said in unison, bowed, and left the room.
The Boss sat by himself deep in thought. 'Looks the same as Foxbow except for the mask. Uses a bow. I wonder if they're the same person. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'. . . naaaaah.'
"VIGILANTE 'BLUE SHOOTER' DECLARES WAR ON THE MOB!" the headlines cried. "MOB BOSS PUTS PRICE ON BLUE ARCHER'S HEAD!" Of course, the Daily Planetary Bugle's bottom-of-page-one article was slightly different - "MOB MEMBER BRUTALLY MURDERED BY ARROW-SLINGING MADMAN" - but the Planetary Bugle's circulation had dropped off since Rob Hood's pictures weren't in there anymore, anyway.
Rob put the papers down in his lap and closed his eyes. He'd napped some already, but it had been a draining week. At least they wouldn't be able to find him in his apartment; that much of his secret was safe. He reached over and turned off the reading lamp.
And in the darkness, he heard something.
Something that sounded like clattering footsleps on stairs.
Something that sounded like a voice saying, "I know he's gotta be here. We traced him to this address."
Something that sounded like another voice saying, "Yeah, but isn't this where Foxbow holes up?"
Nobody but The Mob knew so much as Foxbow's telephone number, let alone his address. This was it; he was about to see action again. Good thing he always wore his Foxbow - er, Blue Shooter outfit underneath his regular clothes. (It helped keep him warm and absorbed body odors anyway.)
"Do you suppose," he heard the first voice begin as he took off his shirt and worked his belt buckle.
"Yeah," the secord voice called out. "He must've killed Foxbow so he could use his bow and ammunition!"
'Brilliant as always,' Rob thought, becoming Blue Shooter more and more from head to toe.
The footsteps made their way to the door. Blue Shooter grabbed his bow and one arrow and hid behind his reading chair. There was a loud kick, the door burst open, and six bullets zinged through a silencer and across the room. Then the second Mobster decided to turn the lights on.
"It's empty," said the first. Blue Shooter peeked up; they weren't quite positioned right yet.
"I could have sworn I saw a light on in this room," the second commented, crossing between the other and the reading chair.
Lined up. That was exactly where Blue Shooter wanted them. He popped up from behind the chair, bow already drawn, shouted, "You missed!," and fired his solitary arrow.
Before the two could react, the arrow shishkabobbed them both.
"Boys, boys, come in! Are you there?"
The tinny voice came from a little beeper on one of the dead Mobsters' sides. Even with the low fidelity, the person belonging to the voice on the other end was unmistakable.
"Don Juan? Don Johnson? Come in!"
Blue Shooter picked it up and pushed Transmit. "Don Juan and Don Johnson can't come to the phone right now, Boss. But if you'll leave a message, the morgue'll get back to you as soon as possible."
"Blue Shooter! What have you done to my boys?!"
"Why don't you take those cotton balls out of your cheeks, Boss? They're imparing your speech something awful!"
"I'll get you for this, you blue maniac! You're dead meat!"
"Oh no I'm not," Blue Shooter replied, "You're dead meat!"
"Oh no I'm not," The Boss retorted, "You're dead meat!"
"Oh no I'm not, you're dead meat!"
"Oh no I'm not, YOU'RE dead meat!"
"On no I'm not -" Blue Shooter thought he heard approaching car engines. "Nice delay tactic, Boss, but you're time's run out." He dropped the still-barking transceiver, gathered up every arrow he had, put them all in his tremendous quiver, tightened his bow string to 1,050 pounds drawing weight, and headed out into the evening.
"Boss," the thug said when he came into the room, "We gots bad news."
The leather-bound chair slowly rotated to face them in the dim light. Even against the size of the chair, The Boss' massive silhouette stood out. Some of his bulk was fat; most of it was muscle. The shadow of his bald head opened its mouth, which looked like it had cotton balls stuffed in the cheeks, to speak: "You know I don't like bad news."
"Yeah, and Don Giovanni liked it even less. Some guy callin' himself the Blue Shooter bumped him off while he was showin' up ta see Foxbow."
"Don Giovanni is dead?!" The Boss raised his voice. He leaned across his desk, grabbed the thug by the collar with his left arm, and lifted him off the ground. "The best friend of the Family is dead, while you were there to protect him?!"
"We . . . we thought it was Foxbow. I mean, he was blue. and it was dark and foggy and all, and he had that bow . . ."
"Hmmm," The Boss hmmmed as he put the thug down. "Did you get a closer look at him?"
"Yeah, he looked almost like Foxbow, except he didn't have those pointy things coming off of his mask."
The Boss pushed a button on his desk. It was a fake button, but he always liked to do that anyway. "I want a price put out on this Blue Shooter's head. Nobody bumps off a member of my Family unless I say so!"
"Right Boss," the thug and the driver said in unison, bowed, and left the room.
The Boss sat by himself deep in thought. 'Looks the same as Foxbow except for the mask. Uses a bow. I wonder if they're the same person. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
'. . . naaaaah.'
"VIGILANTE 'BLUE SHOOTER' DECLARES WAR ON THE MOB!" the headlines cried. "MOB BOSS PUTS PRICE ON BLUE ARCHER'S HEAD!" Of course, the Daily Planetary Bugle's bottom-of-page-one article was slightly different - "MOB MEMBER BRUTALLY MURDERED BY ARROW-SLINGING MADMAN" - but the Planetary Bugle's circulation had dropped off since Rob Hood's pictures weren't in there anymore, anyway.
Rob put the papers down in his lap and closed his eyes. He'd napped some already, but it had been a draining week. At least they wouldn't be able to find him in his apartment; that much of his secret was safe. He reached over and turned off the reading lamp.
And in the darkness, he heard something.
Something that sounded like clattering footsleps on stairs.
Something that sounded like a voice saying, "I know he's gotta be here. We traced him to this address."
Something that sounded like another voice saying, "Yeah, but isn't this where Foxbow holes up?"
Nobody but The Mob knew so much as Foxbow's telephone number, let alone his address. This was it; he was about to see action again. Good thing he always wore his Foxbow - er, Blue Shooter outfit underneath his regular clothes. (It helped keep him warm and absorbed body odors anyway.)
"Do you suppose," he heard the first voice begin as he took off his shirt and worked his belt buckle.
"Yeah," the secord voice called out. "He must've killed Foxbow so he could use his bow and ammunition!"
'Brilliant as always,' Rob thought, becoming Blue Shooter more and more from head to toe.
The footsteps made their way to the door. Blue Shooter grabbed his bow and one arrow and hid behind his reading chair. There was a loud kick, the door burst open, and six bullets zinged through a silencer and across the room. Then the second Mobster decided to turn the lights on.
"It's empty," said the first. Blue Shooter peeked up; they weren't quite positioned right yet.
"I could have sworn I saw a light on in this room," the second commented, crossing between the other and the reading chair.
Lined up. That was exactly where Blue Shooter wanted them. He popped up from behind the chair, bow already drawn, shouted, "You missed!," and fired his solitary arrow.
Before the two could react, the arrow shishkabobbed them both.
"Boys, boys, come in! Are you there?"
The tinny voice came from a little beeper on one of the dead Mobsters' sides. Even with the low fidelity, the person belonging to the voice on the other end was unmistakable.
"Don Juan? Don Johnson? Come in!"
Blue Shooter picked it up and pushed Transmit. "Don Juan and Don Johnson can't come to the phone right now, Boss. But if you'll leave a message, the morgue'll get back to you as soon as possible."
"Blue Shooter! What have you done to my boys?!"
"Why don't you take those cotton balls out of your cheeks, Boss? They're imparing your speech something awful!"
"I'll get you for this, you blue maniac! You're dead meat!"
"Oh no I'm not," Blue Shooter replied, "You're dead meat!"
"Oh no I'm not," The Boss retorted, "You're dead meat!"
"Oh no I'm not, you're dead meat!"
"Oh no I'm not, YOU'RE dead meat!"
"On no I'm not -" Blue Shooter thought he heard approaching car engines. "Nice delay tactic, Boss, but you're time's run out." He dropped the still-barking transceiver, gathered up every arrow he had, put them all in his tremendous quiver, tightened his bow string to 1,050 pounds drawing weight, and headed out into the evening.