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Wade Manson was gasping for air by the time he staggered outside and to the waiting truck. The two boys he had left to guard it were gone, almost certainly killed by either the mercenaries or the hoods from Dockside. Either way, the pair of guards was nowhere to be found. Wade was not the kind of leader that got emotional over hired help, and thus he did not care. The wheezing man opened the door to the cab and threw himself inside. He fumbled the ignition code twice, but finally got it entered and the truck hummed to life with the whine of electric motors and the blue-tinged lights of display screens. With a sigh, Wade engaged the drive motors and tried to pull away from the loading dock, hoping without restraint to put the night’s debacle behind him.
His hopes faded quickly, because the truck did not move. It did not lurch or jerk as it might have if something was blocking it or if some essential component was broken. It simply stayed put and hummed politely as if nothing at all was amiss and it was Wade Manson who had erred in thinking it was supposed to do anything other than sit there. He checked the displays and found everything seemed fine, if one made exception for the conspicuous lack of forward motion.
“Dammit!” Wade spat at the machine and then shut it down. He opened the door and scrambled out of the cab, scanning the tires and undercarriage to see what might be wrong. This in and of itself was a bizarre choice since Wade had little to no mechanical acumen to speak of. The problem would need to be something both simple and obvious for his attention to even matter. He certainly could not fix any sort of serious malfunction. But he felt a desperate need to do something. The fight inside the hangar would not last forever, and he needed to be far away before anyone noticed he had slipped away.
“Havin’ a spot o’ car trouble, Wade?” The Dwarf’s voice was all innocence and benevolence when it shattered Wade’s concentration and startled him into an undignified screech of terror.
“Oh, fucking hell, Rodney!” It was all he could think to say.
“Well, there’s yer problem.” The Dwarf pointed to the back of the truck, where a large, gray skinned behemoth of a mutant was gripping the tailgate and raising the rear tires several inches off the ground. “Looks like Mook here didn’t want ye to leave so soon! Mook, me boy! Ye can put Wade’s wee truck down now. He’s sorry he tried to leave without sayin’ goodbye!”
The truck slumped back to Earth with the squeak of protesting suspension. Mook grinned a big gap-toothed smile, and rolled his shoulders as if lifting the back of a five-ton vehicle was only mildly strenuous. Then the giant stomped over to stand just behind The Dwarf, where he loomed with an air of ominous patience.
“He’s a good lad, he is. If I tell him to stop a truck from drivin’ away, sure and all he just goes up and stops it.”
“What the hell do you want, Rodney?” He recognized this as a stupid question the moment it snuck out through his lips. But he went on all the same, “It’s obvious I’m done. The Brokerage set me up just like everyone else. I’m out. Finished. Leave me the fuck alone and I’ll leave you alone.” Wade did not know how to play this. The Dwarf had never really demonstrated a desire to expand outside of Dockside, and there was no obvious reason for the little man to hound Wade. “It wasn’t my people who went after you. We can call this a wash and work together to beat the Brokerage.”
“Oh, I have all the help I need for that little project, Wade. The problem is that you still have a role to play in this little farce.”
“I’m done playing roles, Rodney. If you think you can strong-arm me you got a—”
“Mook?” The Dwarf interrupted.
A thick simian arm struck out and grabbed Wade Manson by the throat. The fat Boss gurgled in terror and then whined in pain as his feet left the ground. There he hovered, three hundred pounds of fat and belligerence twisting and kicking a foot off the ground.
“Ye might have picked a different term than 'strong arm,’ Wade. Because as long as Mook cashes my checks every week, strong arms I’ll have in spades. Look, he ain’t even strainin’ with yer fat arse.” The hairy little man laughed. “Unless maybe ye mean this arm?” The Dwarf held his bionic limb out. It remained equipped with the big rail driver, and he waved the gaping barrel under Wade’s nose. Manson, still struggling against Mook’s granite grip, did not notice. The Dwarf shrugged.
“Now. Back to yer part in our little drama, Wade. Oops! Mook, better put him down before he passes out on us.”
The wheezing crime boss plummeted to the ground where he collapsed, gagging and coughing.
“Wade,” Rodney continued, “What ye don’t seem to understand is that there cannae be any more of this bullshite squabblin’ over what Boss does what or who gets ta fook with Dockside and who doesn’t. The system worked in the old days, when it was just street gangs and all, but now we got goddamn corporations and Combines and even the fookin’ Brokerage up our arses.” The shaggy head shook, “Whole galactic criminal enterprises all fightin’ over our little slice o’ heaven, boyo. It’ll never stop, either. There will always be another Wade Manson or Combine or whatever who thinks they’re smart enough to buck the system and get all that sweet, sweet, money and power. And every time ye do it, the folks in Dockside get the shite-end of the stick. This time, us lowbrow folks are hitchin’ up our britches and taken all of ye off the table.”
Wade started pulling himself together. He did not like how this was going. The tectonic shift in local power dynamics was larger and more far-reaching than he had ever imagined, and the fat mobster was struggling to master this paradigm. Rodney McDowell was a footnote in the Combine’s quarterly reports, and now the little hairball was dictating terms to a Boss as if he was a child. It had been a long time since Wade had not sat in a position of power or authority, and his discomfort was apparent on his face. His words came quickly, fueled by anger and forceful in a way that indicated fear far more than they did confidence. “You listen up, Rodney. I don’t know what the fuck you think—”
“Mook?” The Dwarf interrupted again. The gray limb lashed out again, this time cuffing Wade across the side of his head. The fat man spun into the side of the truck with a hollow thump, and then he flopped to the ground with a groan. Mook reached down and pressed a crooked hand against Wade’s chest and held him there, pinned to the dirt.
“Here’s where you come in, Wade,” The Dwarf went on as if Wade had never said anything. “The Brokerage had ye set up to take all the heat for their little power play, and that was a good idea. So good, in fact, that we are going to do the same wit’ ye. When the shite comes down, and oh, Wade me boy, is the shite ever going to come down, it’s all going to land square on yer wee head.”
“Reynard!” Wade blurted, “It’s all him. He’s the one they’ll want!”
“Ye misunderstand me, Wade,” The Dwarf shook his head, “I don’t care who actually caused the ruckus. Yer friend Reynard is in good hands, don’t worry. But Reynard will only open more questions and more investigations. On the other hand, Wade Manson is a bit of a known entity in these parts. Uptown cops won’t look too much further once they have ye pegged for it all. Ye did murder the other bosses, after all, didn’t ye just?”
Wade’s eyes went wide. He had absolutely murdered them all. He had done it publicly and dramatically, and then bragged about it. Worse, he did it right under the noses of all those clean, incorruptible Uptown cops. His heart sank at just how categorically the Brokerage had played him.
“It won’t work, Rodney! I won’t play ball!” Wade wasn’t sure why he thought this was the best tack to attempt, but once committed, he ran with it. “I’ll turn witness and fuck all of you over! NBPD will eat up my testimony! No, you and I gotta make a deal here, Rodney.”
“Wade me boy,” The Dwarf chuckled, “ye misunderstand me again. Nobody needs ye alive to take the fall. Yer just as good a patsy dead as ye are breathin’. I just needed ta look ye in the eye and tell ye first. You Combine fooks have been screwing with the wee folk for so long, ye’ve forgotten where it all began. But I remember. I was there, boyo. It began on our Docks. On our streets. It started with the first hood to fence a smuggled Kingfruit from a tramp ship out of Eden’s Burrow.”
The Dwarf reached out and snatched Wade by his lapel. The stubby arms hauled the fat man forward and put his nose an inch from Rodney McDowell’s bushy white mustache. Wade was surprised at the strength of that arm, and the density and weight of the small man who held him.
“I was that hood,” The Dwarf’s accent was nearly gone. “I was born on Eden’s Burrow, and I started the first organized smuggling operation in Dockside nearly fifty years ago. I watched the miners and farmers of my little colony get shafted by the government when taxes and tariffs squeezed us out of the export game, and then I watched the Combine try to do the same by squeezing us out of smuggling. I’ve been spitting in your eye for close to five decades, you little shite, and I want you to know before you die that I won. That Dockside won.”
The Dwarf dropped his prey, and his thick brogue returned without warning. “Inside that fookin’ warehouse a rejected army-surplus killing machine is smashin’ his way through a big-arse cyborg with a bloomin’ hammer, for god’s sake. Half the muscle in Dockside is watching’ him do it, too. Roland’s always been a legend, but now he’ll be a bona fide hero to the lot o’ them. They’ll follow him to hell and back now, and they’ll break the Brokerage like kindling. Dockside belongs to the Docksiders Wade, and ye get to die knowin’ it. Knowin’ ye failed, and that all ye’ve built is for naught.”
His voice fell to a whisper, “I’m not a good man, boyo. I’m hard, and mean, and I don’t think I’m all that fookin’ likable. But I will do one wee little favor for Roland Tankowicz tonight. I’m going to kill ye, Wade, so Roland doesn’t have to. He’s done enough and carries too many scars already for the trouble of it.”
Wade Manson surged to his feet and rocketed a right hook at The Dwarf’s head. The Dwarf caught the fist in the palm of his left hand and Wade gasped as his knuckles buckled under the freakish density of the Dwarf’s bones.
“I’m from Eden’s Burrow, ye gobshite. I was born and raised at one-and-a-half times Earth-normal gravity.” The little man stepped in and twisted Manson’s wrist backward against the joint. Wade gasped against and squeaked in pain.
“It may have stunted me growth a wee bit, but granny always told me I had the strength of the mountain folk in me. She was a queer sort like that.” He sniffed, “Goodbye, Wade.”
With a roll of his shoulder, Rodney brought his weaponized bionic arm down on Wade Manson’s head with a wet crack, collapsing the skull like a gory piñata. The fat crime lord sprayed inky red blood from ruptured eye sockets and then slumped in a lifeless heap at The Dwarf’s feet.
From behind, The Dwarf heard Mook gasp and retch. He winced, “Ach! Sorry lad! I forget ye can be a wee bit squeamish about the rough stuff. I shoulda warned ye before I did that. Ye all right?”
Mook coughed and gagged a few more times, holding up his hand to indicate he needed a moment.
“All right, lad,” Rodney patted the giant mutant on the shoulder, “Take yer time.”
The crunch of gravel under giant boots caused Rodney to look up, and he saw the heavy silhouette of Roland framed in stark relief by the loading dock lights. “You killed him?” Though phrased as a question, there was a tired resignation in the words making it very clearly a statement.
“Yep. It’s done. I figured I’d spare ye this one murder. I hear it’s not really yer style anymore.”
“I’m growing as a person.”
The Dwarf looked back to Mook, who may have been getting some of his color back now. It was hard to tell because that color was gray. “Can I assume ye won yer little duel, then?”
“Yeah. I’ll be feeling this one for a while though.”
Rodney laughed at that, “Ye just beat a fookin’ heavy armature ta death with a fookin’ hammer, ye big idiot. I dare say ye ought ta have a few bruises ta show fer it!”
“I suppose you’re right.” Roland sounded tired, “You okay to set the scene for the cops on this one? Just got a call from Lucia and I need to get to The Sprawl.”
“Sure. I can set up a frame job better than most. Everything okay with the wee lass?”
“She’s fine. But Reynard slipped by her. We have a fix on him though. So, I’m heading over to mop up.”
“Ugh. I’ve seen ye ‘mop up’ before. I’ll be happy to stay here while ye do it.” Rodney turned pensive, “Hey, Roland?”
“Yeah?”
“You remember Detective Bixby?”
Roland smiled, “Last good cop in Dockside. He died my first week here, right after I killed half your crew, if I recall. He was a good man. Why do you ask?”
“It occurs to me, ye great big gobshite, that this is what he always wanted. Dockside for the Docksiders. Protection for the poorer folk from the corruption and bullshite. That pudgy alcoholic fooker spent every waking moment of his sorry life trying ta put me in jail, but he never told lie or broke a rule doin’ it. I used ta think he was a damned addle-brained fool, but here I am finishing what he started twenty-five fookin’ years ago. Now that’s fookin’ irony, Tank me boy.”
“I miss him too, Rodney.”
“Oh, go fuck off,” snorted the Dwarf.