Cherry Jubilee pushed the half used cigarette into the ashtray, causing smoke to rise and dissipate into the air. Leaving behind the faint smell of polluted, yet tasty, chemicals throughout the air. Jubilee’s office was momentarily silent as she continued to push the cigarette into the ashtray, allowing ample time for the whirring machinery to fill the absent noise. Outside the office, machinery lifted, moved and separated cherries into different collections used for different purposes.
The office was quite cramped, with a large wooden desk positioned directly in the center of the small room and multiple filing cabinets pushed against the back wall, behind Jubilee. Official and unofficial papers had been haphazardly crammed into the cabinets until they were no longer able to close properly. Jubilee had obviously made an effort to give the room an aesthetic appeal by placing potted plants near the entrance and placing formerly elegant chairs on both sides of the desk. Though, the leather of the chairs had become frayed and faded, with the material creasing at the slightest touch. The entire room was tattered and used; the yellow wallpaper were grimy and peeling from exposure to cigarettes, the desk itself had burn marks from when Jubilee would miss the ashtray; the ceiling was barely visible through the thick smoke cloud wafting above them.
Unlike the smoke filled room, the area around the machinery was filled with pleasantly sour air, even though the odor of the machines suggested something sinister. Above the machines was a catwalk with several workers surveying the worksite, assuring everything ran smoothly and as planned. A few swaggered along the catwalk while others leaned against the railings. Occasionally one of them would fumble inside their pockets in order to fish out a cheap cigarette from their crumpled packets. Despite the cherry factory supposedly generating three-hundred jobs for the honest workmen, the warehouse was surprisingly bare; the odd person would periodically fumble with a control pad and leave.
Jubilee’s former cigarette was now nothing more than a bud sticking from a pile of ash and tobacco. She collected the glass of strong apple cider on her desk, the ice inside the glass made a rhythmic tapping noise when she sipped. She leaned back in her feebly padded chair and waited for her visitor to speak. Goodwill Buckle, the newly appointed errand boy for a street gang, tugged at his unfastened tie before speaking, “The Street Devils want to call on a favour.”
The white, buttoned business shirt and black dress pants Buckley sported would be more suited to a white collar business man than a back alley thug. Though, his hair wasn’t exactly the example of neat; his short, dishevelled hair was tangled in every which way; the streaks of brown hair clambered over each other. However, his pointed face was carefully washed and cleaned, excluding the hair tracing his sharp jawline. His small nose struggled under the smell of cigarettes and sour cherries, while his brown eyes only suffered from the burning smoke.
A small cough came from Jubilee as she sipped her apple cider, which was specially brought in from the Apple family brewery. It was the type of cough that meant she was either doubtful of the negotiators terms, or she was choking on warm liquor which she was not yet accustomed to. Buckley hoped for the latter.
Once Jubilee regained her composure, she placed the liquor glass back onto the table, perhaps with more much force than she wanted as
some cider spilled onto the desk. Buckley found a sudden great interest in the wall behind Jubilee as the glass connected with the desk, “Mr. Buckle-
Purely from habit, Buckley corrected Jubilee, “Buckley is fine.” Though, a sudden realisation of who he interrupted washed over him, and he wished he could melt into the seat and disappear.
Jubilee furrowed her brow and leant forward in her seat, assuming a more intimidating figure, “Mr. Buckle” she said, with more force this time, “I will give you a favour.”
Buckley knew Jubilee had not yet finished, though she would not continue without intervention. It was a simple tactic used to make errand boys feel comfortable, “What do you want in return?” Buckley kept his gaze fixated on a stained splotch behind Jubilee as he asked her.
Jubilee pushed off the desk and fell back into her chair, where she then swiped a cigarette packet from the desk. The cigarettes were a cheap brand which read “Hoxton’s Buds”. Jubilee bumped the bottom of the packet on the edge of the desk and out popped a crudely made cigarette, to which Jubilee wasted no time in resting between her lips, “Mr. Buckle.” She started, “Does your gang have any history with drugs, or drug trafficking of any kind?”
Buckley scratched at the morning whiskers under his chin as he thought about the question, he hadn’t been in the group for very long and hardly knew its history, “No, as far as I know.”
“Me neither, horrendous stuff.” Jubilee said as she dismissed the idea of drugs, “Never have, and never will.” As she finished, she collected the silver lighter on her desk and placed it underneath the cigarette. A spark started underneath the cigarette but the flame failed, “I need you to transport guns.” Another spark, and another failure, “In fact, I need you to transport them here.”
Jerking at his tie again Buckley thought about the deal, “I’m not sure if the guys will want to-
“I need you to transport guns.” Jubilee reiterated, this time Buckley caught her stare, and found it difficult to return to the splotch on the wall. A few moments passed and the whirring noise of machinery filled the air again before Jubilee spoke, “A shipment will arrive this afternoon and I need you to collect it.”
“Wouldn’t you be able to send one of your cronies to collect your guns?” Buckley protested.
Another spark and finally a small flame started, Jubilee pulled the lighter underneath her cigarette and the paper and tobacco was alight within moments. The lighter was then cast onto the table which caught Buckley’s attention. Buckley noticed a faint engraving on the side of the silver lighter, he tried turning his head to read it more clearly but was called to attention by Jubilee, “Do you want this favour or not?” After she spoke, Jubilee huffed a large breathe of smoke and released the contents of her lungs into the already contaminated, yet comforting air of the office.
“All right, I’ll do it.” Buckley said as he raised his hands in a joking surrender, “Where and when do you want me to pick it up?”
The chill from the wind swept over Buckley again, prompting him to, again, rub his hands together to create warmth. He was told to wait at the docks until a pink, metal crate with the logo, “Hoxton’s Buds” was stored on the shipyard. Supposedly it was meant to arrive near the south side of the dock, but no specific time was given. Instead he was told to wait until the crate arrived, and Buckley was forced to wait for three hours in the night breeze, with no sign of freighters from the south side.
Buckley had ascended an idle crane in order to gain a vantage point over the shipyard and any drowsiness he felt dispersed when he looked over the cranes railing. While the dock’s lights were attractive, Buckley paid no attention to them and leant against a metal wall beside the ladder, listening for the sound of docking freighters.
He silently cursed Jubilee for having him wait in the chilling cold. The sound of another freighter horn announced in the shipyard, causing Buckley to slowly move to inspect the source of the noise; the sudden rush of blood to his legs caused them to gradually thaw. The freighter sounded weaker than the others, so Buckley spent a few moments inspecting the south side of the docks until he found the proverbial freighter.
Though, calling it a freighter would be an overstatement, the ship was barely larger than a simple speedboat, making it difficult to detect the colour and text written on the boat. However, despite its unexpected size and ambiguous colour, Buckley did not hesitate to rush down the idle crane, occasionally being reminded to slow his pace when he would miss a rung on the ladder.
The trip to the south side of the dock was met with no interruption, any workers that caught sight of Buckley shrugged him off and returned to their work, besides, security there was surprisingly weak. Buckley approached the speedboat and called out to the people securing the boat, “Hey!” he called as he waved to the people and moved closer. Buckley immediately shoved his hands into his trench-coat when he stopped waving; the blood in his fingertips had already receded into his palms. As Buckley pushed his hands into his coat, in his left pocket, he brushed against a metal flask filled with cheap scotch. In his right pocket, he brushed against the grip of his Colt 45 pistol, his forefinger landing on the trigger. It was a simple handgun which was given to him by a thug named Carlos as he was introduced to The Street Devils. They said it was sign of being accepted into the gang, but Buckley simply recognised it as a means of protection.
He continued to move forward at a steady pace. The people at the boat heard his call and acted like any gun smuggling criminal would. With hostility, “Arriba las manos!” a man called out.
Despite not understanding their language, Buckley felt the aggression in his voice, especially since he now had two assault rifles pointed in his direction. His hand tightened on his gun, the grip digging into his palms and the metal of the trigger warming to his touch. However, Buckley quickly numbered his odds, let go of the weapon and forced his hands out of his pockets and above his head. His pace continued until he was several feet from the man who called out to him, “Are you the ones with the guns?” Buckley asked as he stopped. Soon, he felt rather ridiculous for asking that question; of course they had guns, they were pointed at him right now, “Jubilee sent me to-
“Jubilee!” the same voice called out with an immense amount of force. Suddenly, Buckley felt as if he had, somehow, insulted a member of the opposite party and suddenly the firearm cradled in his pocket seemed much more welcoming. Possibilities of his escape, capture or death started to fly through his head and the world around him started to spin; Buckley’s legs tensed as he prepared to flee, his hands slowly started to move to his pockets and the favour from Jubilee seemed worthless.
Just as Buckley motioned to snatch the pistol from his coat and retreat backwards, an imposing voice called out, “Is that Jubilee’s amigo here for weapons?” It was a deep voice with a heavy Spanish accent. A few moments passed before an equally heavy Spaniard stepped off of the boat, two duffel bags clasped in his arms, and the vessel rocking slightly as it was alleviated of his weight.
Buckley stepped towards the stout man, his hands still kept above his head, but still ready to reach for his gun. Once he was a few feet from the man with the duffle bags, which Buckley assumed to be holding the weapons, he was able to get a decent look at the trader. He had series of tattoos along his greasy arms, though, all of them were decorated with dull colours ranging from black to light grey, except for a particular tattoo positioned below his left shoulder. A red heart with the text, ‘Mama’ written on the foreground. His hair, or what remained of his thinning hair was gelled backwards into thin lines. His facial hair, however, was thick with colour and viscosity. It was only a simple goatee, but it was definitely the man’s key feature, beside his smug smile. His curved, oily face looked jolly and kind, as if he was the favourite uncle to many happy nieces and nephews.
The pointed barrels and threatening glares started to unnerve Buckley, but he still kept his cool by trying to imagine he was not one trigger pull from death, “I am, yes.” Buckley replied as the wind’s chill assaulted his palms; he instinctively motioned to shove his hands into his pockets, but the multitude of firearms pointed at him advised against that.
A few moments of silence passed before either party spoke again, “Well? What you waiting for American?” The question jolted Buckley into action, causing him to move faster than he anticipated which startled the armed men slightly; the fingers on their triggers becoming tenser as they pushed against the chilled metal.
Buckley, now within reach of the Spaniard, prepared for the weight of the bags and extended his arms towards the Spaniard, “Thank you… uh, Mr…?” Buckley asked as the bags fell into his arms, they initially tested his balance as he started to strain, but he managed to withstand the bags weight.
As Buckley started to tuck the duffel bags underneath his arms, the Spaniard spoke, his voice still resembling the typical Spanish cartel member, “My name is not important.” Buckley, despite the severity of the situation, inwardly and simultaneously laughed and cringed at the comment. It reminded him of the cheap action thrillers he used to watch; the characters in the films seemed much more charming, exciting and predictable; while ‘Mr. Not Important’ only served to embarrass himself.
Without comment, Buckley fastened his grip on the bags and returned to his unimpressive car. The white paint had been victim to many harsh seasons, the engine was far overdue for maintenance, the frame of the car was already dilapidated, and an unmovable layer of grime had coated the trashed interior.
Despite how he managed to keep his cool in opposition of many guns and seemed ridiculously calm in the situation, Buckley couldn’t help but feel like his legs want to collapse from under him and the contents of his stomach want to leave. His hands shook uncontrollably as he constantly remembered that he was a trigger away from death, though, he tried to think nothing of it.
With both hands occupied by illegally imported firearms; Buckley fumbled about, trying to retrieve his rusted keys for his equally rusted car. A few moments were spent squirming underneath the weight of the bags while he tried, without succession, to pull the keys from his pocket. Finally, he decided to put the bags down, potentially with more force and less control than he anticipated. As the bags connected with the ground, causing a small cloud of dust to rise, the sound of distant crumpling gravel could be heard, even more clearly when the sound started to move closer and the direction of the ambient noise could be identified.
Without thinking, Buckley turned towards the moving sound and suddenly, he had a jabbing pain in the back of his head along with a sting along his hip as the keys found themselves between him and the ground. The next words Buckley heard was, “Get on the ground! This is the police!” followed by a thumping pain in his gut as the wind was forced out of him; the only sound filling his mind was a constant ringing as his head connected with the ground again. Then, there was a scraping pain against his face as he was pushed into the gravel. The dust invaded his nostrils and caked the left side of his face. Once Buckley realised the situation he was in, he started to react by thrashing, bashing and biting. Any possible tactic that could give him any leeway to escape, which happened to be freeing a single arm from his captor.
Now that he had a limb free, Buckley initially thought to retrieve the firearm from his pocket. Unfortunately, he was rejected of his weapon when his coat was pulled off while he was flailing on the ground; so he tried for an alternative. He tried reaching behind himself to strike his attacker, but, it was as if no one was forcing Buckley into the gravel since he couldn’t grasp the officer on top of him. Next, he tried crawling out from under the person on him, though, it proved useless and only scratched the palms of his hands as he desperately tried to escape, like that of a wild animal frantically fleeing from a poacher. Though, it proved helpful once he abandoned his fraught escape, collected a handful of gravel and dust, and aimlessly threw it behind himself. Luckily, the grit found its target, causing his captor to suddenly release their grip and attend to their clouded eyes.
Now that Buckley was free, he scuttled out from under the person now trying to hold him down and clean their eyes, but Buckley was already on both feet and the panging throughout his body was starting to numb, he then searched for his jacket.
However, his captor had somewhat recovered from the stinging in their eyes around the same time they saw Buckley identify the jacket and rush towards it. By the way their target ran towards the jacket with earnest determination, they knew that it was crucial to remove the clothing from them. So, they too ran towards the jacket discarded near the rusted car.
Buckley shoved his hands into the pocket with the pistol and immediately felt the rough grip land perfectly into his palms; while his pursuer grabbed onto Buckley’s wrists while they still fumbled inside the jacket’s pocket. They both tugged at each other, forward and back continuously; either seeming like they might succeed at one point, only to have the advantage lost after they were walloped across the face, in the stomach or directly in the crotch. Though, neither of them released their grip on the coat; repeating the same process for a few moments, back and forth.
Eventually, one of the floundering parties lost. It finally ended once two muffled, but still loud cracks were heard and a flashing light could be seen escaping the jacket pocket. Through the ringing pain in his ears and the numbness in his hands, Buckley felt the grip on his wrists loosen, prompting him to pull his hands away and step back while he inspected the officer. While this happened, the realisation of what had just unfolded started to occur to Buckley.
The officer, however, stayed at the ground; unmoved, just like their eyes, which seemed to stare into nothing. Their hands still gripped the jacket, but, with less intensity than before. Buckley feared the shots had been fired towards the officer, the surreal nature of their immobility, and the way their eyes appeared lifeless hinted at the worst. A few moments of silence passed and Buckley feared it was the worst. A multitude of thoughts passed through his mind, each regarding how he would dispose of the body; though, his fears were removed once the officer’s hands shot to their chest and started feeling around their torso as the life returned to their eyes.
Though, they weren’t given much time to inspect damages since the butt of the pistol came down hard onto their head, giving them the perfect chance to mimic a log falling onto the ground.
Without thinking, Buckley started to heave the unconscious officer to the trunk of their car, continually needing to rearrange the position of their limbs in the trunk when they looked strangely contorted or when they failed to stay in the trunk. From a quick inspection of the officer, he found that they were a female named Roseluck who was only accepted into the force a mere week ago, just like Buckley, but in a more insidious operation.
Buckley silently cursed at himself for almost being overpowered by a girl, more than once; he also cursed at himself when he found where the direction of the bullets had travelled; directly into his passenger door. Buckley heaved the cumbersome bags into the car and drove to Cherry Hill Ranch, breaking a significant amount of road traffic laws along the way.
Day One: Illegal Allegiances
The orange light from the streetlamps shined directly into Buckley’s car, illuminating the grimy interior. The petal had never been pressed so far into the floor; the black tires released a howling screech as it clawed across the asphalt at each sharp turn, which seemed like every turn. Buckley, the newly appointed errand boy of ‘The Street Devils’ and a young man with a sharp face, and brown eyes and brown hair, was wildly steering with the fractured driving wheel. He veered between wide births between vehicles, occasionally leaving the asphalt road to then drive on the concrete path. Buckley raced through any red light that appeared before him, each time he covered his face and eyes as a blinding flash appeared before him. Luckily, Dodge Junction was quite bare during the twilight hours, though, he did have a few near misses when he ran a red light. Buckley noted that he should ask a member of The Street Devils to ‘appropriate’ a vehicle for him, his current one was far overdue for maintenance and his licence plate was certainly now noted in an officer’s notebook as a vehicle to apprehend. Though, it was most certainly not in Roseluck’s notebook. Roseluck, the one week rookie recently accepted into the police force, was less than snuggly crammed into the trunk of Buckley’s car. She was accompanied by a bottle of oil lubricant, a spare tire and a bent tire iron, a detail Buckley forgot to notice when he folded her unconscious body into the trunk after the scuffle both of them had. Buckley didn’t think to leave her on the rough gravel by the shipyard, he felt a sense of urgency and caution since an officer of the law had managed to see his face. He wasn’t sure how he would handle the situation, and neither was he sure how he would explain himself to Cherry Jubilee.
As a straight stretch of road started to appear, Buckley turned to the passenger seat, where he hastily threw his pistol and the two duffel bags filled with firearms that Jubilee sent him to collect. He felt around and underneath the duffel bags for his weapon, since it was currently his only means of protection. He eventually found it on the tattered floor of the passenger’s side, and as he returned to look at the road he narrowly avoided a streetlamp. Buckley turned the next corner and arrived at Cherry Hill Ranch, he noticed the faint light of a cigarette waiting at the factory entrance, the light inside the factory shone through any window, ajar door and slither on the factory, creating a temperate amount of light around the premises. The gravel shifted and set underneath the weight of Buckley’s car, the pleasant sound of the scrunching gravel would have felt almost convivial, if it weren’t for the bags of armaments beside him and the unconscious officer in his trunk. As soon as Buckley killed the engine he rushed to the boot of his car.
He fumbled with his keys, the metal jingling as he rushed to find the correct one. Behind him, he heard Jubilee puff another drag from her cheap cigarette as she started to move closer, the sound of shifting gravel signifying her approach. Buckley continued to finger through his keys until he found the right one. The keys, cradled in Buckley’s grip, were then pushed into the lock after a few failed tries. As soon as the boot popped open, Buckley found himself on the sharp gravel. The world around him suddenly turned black as something very hard struck him across his head.
Buckley dreamed of drowning underneath a sea of red, yellow and blue; the thick, suffocating colours enveloped him as he clambered to the surface. Despite being unable to swim and struggling underneath the strange liquid, Buckley was managing to reach the water’s surface. The feeling felt as if it came in splashes, the cool sensation would assault his face then melt away before it came again. Buckley was within distance of the surface now, but once he tried to pierce the top, the cold sensation came again and he was dragged under. The icy feeling stayed this time. Though, it was as if he fell lower into the abyss or the viscous goo became higher. He panicked; he started to swim faster, his untrained arms and legs pushing harder against the liquid. Each time he tried to swim higher, the surface would distance itself from him. The cold sensation was now beginning to creep through his nostrils and push down his throat, Buckley tried covering his mouth and plugging his nose with his fingers in response to the invading liquid, yet, it still pushed through his nostrils and into his lungs. The dream felt so real, and for a moment Buckley felt like stopping and allowing the fluid to seep its way into his lungs and take over.
Then he woke. The mixture of colours disappeared in an instant and it was replaced with a tight, circular green space. Immediately, Buckley knew he was in a bucket, or at least his face was being crammed into one. He didn’t bother to question how or why he ended up in a bucket, he just needed to get out. He grasped the rim of the green container and pushed himself up while trying to flip the bucket and tip the contents onto the floor. Suddenly, the force pushing on his head let up and allowed him to escape the claustrophobic space and finally breathe. Buckley’s vision eased from a watery blur to a clear view in a few moments. When he could see, Buckley realised he was in the Cherry Hill Ranch factory. The red cherries and yellow machinery moved in a jittery course as the products were transported to their designated areas. Before him, stood Jubilee, who was severely agitated at Buckley, and the fact she did not have a cigarette to smoke. Buckley, despite his vision returning, was still unable to move fluently; his motor skills denied to comply, so once Jubilee motioned for a guard to grab him by his shoulders, Buckley was unable to resist; he was barely able to guide his confused legs. Periodically, a throbbing would pass through Buckley’s head; it wouldn’t hurt too badly, but it felt as if someone was occasionally squeezing his head.
Jubilee led the person grabbing Buckley up the metal catwalk that hung above the twisting machinery. Slowly, but surely, Buckley was beginning to regain his ability to move. He was now able to walk normally, almost; he still slipped when trying to support his own weight, but the person grasping him by the arm was keeping him from falling. Near the middle of the catwalk, below them was an idle machine with a conveyor belt leading into a mixer. There was a lack of cherries on the idle machine, which was very strange, thought Buckley, these machines never stopped. Then, he realised something quite vital. Their destination stopped directly overhead a machine that looked as if it crush the cherries into a concentrated liquid.
An abrupt surge of adrenaline shot through Buckley and suddenly all of his motor skills returned, allowing him to resist against the force pulling him by the arm. Though, when he tried too quickly, the squeezing around his head shifted into a stabbing pain. He tried to shake off the person gripping his shoulder before trying to make a dash, but, the grip tightened and he was suddenly thrown into the metal catwalk. His back stung as he collided into the bar; the metal railing bent and cracked his spine as his nearly flipped over the side and into the machine. Jubilee heard the commotion behind her and moved forward a few paces as to avoid the ensuing chaos; she watched as her personal guard, Padlock, held Buckley against the railing until he was a mere push from tipping over the edge.
Buckley, now held halfway off the catwalk by his tie, froze and watched as Jubilee started to approach him slowly. Her white, long sleeved blouse fit loosely around her torso before being tucked into her rosy skirt, which only reached to above her knees before being continued by stockings that matched the colour of the skirt. Her dark red streaks of hair, contrasted against brighter red streaks, was elegantly coiffed and tied back by a yellow band with cherries randomly embroidered along it. Buckley smiled as she approached, he hoped to placate Jubilee with a friendly and innocent smile, even though it was obviously forced. She stopped a few feet from Buckley before she reached into her skirt pocket and produced a white packet of cheap cigarettes. On the red label it read ‘Hoxton’s Buds’ surrounded by numerous warnings of possible health risks. She flipped open the lid, inspected the cigarettes, or the lack of them, and threw the packet into the idle machine. Then she spoke, “I have a few questions for you.” Her voice lacked any emotion, the desensitized tone worried Buckley more than the machine beneath him.
Buckley nodded his head quickly in small motions, then said, “Okay, yes. Okay.”
“Right, Good.” Jubilee started, a hint of satisfaction in her voice, “So, who is that officer that was in your trunk?”
“Roseluck?” Buckley replied.
Jubilee straightened her back and said, “Yes, the young girl who- oh so delightfully- clubbed you and two of my men with a tire iron and, may I add, would have clubbed me if it weren’t for Padlock here.” She gestured to the man holding Buckley over the railing.
Buckley briefly observed Padlock, his impressive physique and rough face spoke machoism, though, his blue hair and pale skin worked against him. Buckley smiled innocently, though his pacifying technique didn’t work on Padlock; the tie around his neck loosened and threatened to send him into the machine. As he regained his composure, Buckley said, “She attacked me and I knocked her out, so I brought her here.”
Jubilee patted her skirt, “So why did you- hey, look at me,” Jubilee clicked her fingers a few times, “not at Padlock; forget he is even there- why did you bring her here?”
“She saw my face” Buckley answered, the words seeming to leave his mouth before he thought about them.
“So, you brought her here so she could see the rest of our faces?” Jubilee asked, raising both of her hands to motion around the factory, “why did you even bother bringing her here? Why not leave her in a ditch somewhere?”
“W- Well,” Buckley stuttered, he didn’t exactly have a viable answer, “I thought-
“You thought that I could fix this?” She asked, raising her eyebrows, “You thought that I had enough power and influence to make this disappear?” Buckley was about to answer, but was interrupted when Jubilee spoke, her tone was starting to spurt venom, “This isn’t like the movies where I have the police in my pocket or I know the Chief of Police as a friend.” Jubilee stepped closer and prodded Buckley with a sharp, red fingernail; each time she said the word ‘your’ she prodded Buckley again, “This is your problem. This is your muck up, with your dirty fingerprints all over it. Give me a reason why you shouldn’t be the next thing that jams my mixer.”
Buckley thought for an answer, he could plead that he had a family, but his last relative died four years ago and he was an only child, as were his parents; Jubilee probably wouldn’t sympathise with him anyway. He could plead that his fellow gang members would notice his absence, but Jubilee could hardly care. Buckley thought back to how he was supposed to return with a favour, but now he would return dead. Then he remembered, ‘the favour,’ he thought, ‘how could I forget?’ Jubilee motioned to turn around and move away.
“The favour!” Buckley blurted, prompting Jubilee to swivel on her heels, her fingertips now pressed firmly together.
“That brings us to another conundrum.” Jubilee looked down at her hands as she pressed them together. She moved towards Buckley slowly and said, “Where are the rest of the guns?”
“The rest of the guns?” He asked. The grip on his tie loosened momentarily and he dropped an inch closer to machine. He was close to reaching the end of his tie, “Woah! I honestly do not know what you are talking about. Some fat Spaniard handed me two bags, filled with guns. That was it!” Though, now that Buckley thought about it, two bags was quite a small amount.
Jubilee was a bit dubious about his story, but, it sounded somewhat believable, “A Nigerian man, named Abidugan, was meant to deliver fifty bags along with a vehicle that could transport them. Your rusted piece of junk- well, I’m surprised it could transport two.”
“You told me to wait for a pink boat- that was it. Nothing else.” Buckley protested, “They knew that you had sent me, so I thought they were the right people.”
Jubilee massaged between her eyebrows, periodically squeezing the skin before saying, “I told you, to ‘wait for a pink shipping crate, with the label Hoxton’s Buds to be stored on the shipyard’ do you not remember that?” Before Buckley could answer she continued, “No matter, they seem to have known who you were sent by, so they have stolen the shipment and have given you- what seems to be- metal rods stuffed into a bag. Did you check the shipment at all?” Buckley wanted to answer, but felt it would be prudent to remain silent for now.
“The biggest problem, you see,” Jubilee lifted her head to look at Buckley, “is that we were meant to act as a bridge between two parties. We got paid a small fee to smuggle the weapons, but now, it looks as if we have taken the weapons for ourselves and, consequentially, we become the target of these organisations.” Jubilee pressed her fingers together much harder, so much so, that the sound of a snapping fingernail could be heard, “In thirty days, which I can probably push to sixty, the armaments are meant to be delivered, and within that time I have to produce a complete copy of the shipment or find the original shipment, otherwise, I have to pay the piper.” Jubilee breathed in heavily, “And you have to as well.”
The favour that Buckley wanted to call upon shrivelled into a decrepit husk with very little value, he had no idea what to say. ‘I have nothing,’ he thought, ‘I only saw his face and that’s about it.’ Buckley decided to go with it, “I saw the dealers face!” he cried, “He’s a fat Spaniard with thin hair… it- it’s slicked back and he has a thick goatee.” Buckley was speaking so fast his mind couldn’t keep up with the words, “He has tattoos along his arms, with one saying ‘Mama’ and he looks as if he crawled through a grease pit. He didn’t say his name.”
This piqued Jubilee’s interest, since she rushed over to Buckley and nearly flipped him over the edge. She motioned over to one side of the factory, and suddenly the machine came to life; the revolving blades and gnashing metal beckoned for Buckley to fall and feed it, the cigarette packet inside was gone in an instant. The droning machinery filled the air with a blaring sound. Buckley’s eyes shut as he flinched, and his body tensed instinctively, “Do you mean to say, that the spokesperson, Pedro Azarola, for the Los Zetas- the most technologically advanced and brutal crime syndicate in Mexico, has decided to become mixed in my affairs?” Jubilee thought for a moment before shoving Buckley in the chest, his only support still being the tie around his neck, “If you want to walk away from this alive, you are going to help me. Pedro is expected to stay in Dodge Junction for a while, you are going to find him, get the guns and deliver them.”
For a moment, Buckley thought that it would be easy to find Pedro. Dodge Junction was a modest town with a low population, but then he remembered the town’s industrialisation in the last few years and the massive flock of people migrating to the city, “How am I going to find him in this town? I can’t exactly knock on every door and ask for Pedro.” He asked. Buckley felt the pull on his tie become fiercer before he was finally upright on his feet and safe on the catwalk, he felt like collapsing and holding tightly onto the railing beside him. The machine beneath his feet slowly went quiet and finally stopped.
“Look for help then,” Jubilee said nonchalantly, “I don’t care how you do it, it is your mess and I have to clean it up. I have to see about postponing our impending death.”
Now that he was stable on the catwalk, Buckley felt safer to ask questions, “Where’s Roseluck?” Jubilee didn’t answer, “What is going to happen to her?” Buckley asked, wondering if she would receive the same punishment he did, but with a more fatal ending. Buckley didn’t exactly condone killing, he only thought that it was necessary sometimes, but he wanted to avoid it.
Jubilee stopped for a moment and thought while Buckley waited behind her. A few silent seconds passed before she spoke, “She’s still in your trunk- Padlock! Come, we may need your help.”
Roseluck eased herself slightly in the dark confines of the overly cramped trunk, she slowly positioned herself to be able to launch herself out of her precincts. With her wrists now tied behind her back, she was unable to retrieve a weapon, which, currently to her, could be anything if enough force was used. She constantly tried squeezing out of her constraints by pulling her hands out of the knotted rope or cutting it with anything she could scrape it against. The thought of a clean surrender didn’t appeal to her, besides, she was in the custody of a criminal, a person who would simply stab her in the back at their first chance. Then she heard it, the sound of shifting gravel, gradually becoming louder as people approached the car; she tensed her legs against the worn fabric and prepared to propel herself forward. Roseluck counted the muffled footsteps and assumed there were at least two people, though, it was quite difficult to hear over her pounding heartbeat.
Padlock took lead of the group, while Jubilee and Buckley lagged behind him and left the hard work to him. Buckley exchanged his keys with Padlock, but, before he opened the trunk, he knocked on the lid three times, causing the occupant to tense harder and prepare to leap out. Padlock popped the trunk after he carefully pushed the key into the lock, the familiar sound called everyone to attention, which was then followed by a loud thud and a juddering of the trunk. A stifled yelp could be heard from the trunk, followed by an exasperated groan. Padlock, now sure that the occupant was stunned, flung open the trunk and heaved Roseluck from inside and onto the gravel; she fell wildly and let out a grunt as she hit the ground, then slowly writhed on the floor, hoping the throbbing in her skull would quickly pass.
Padlock slung her over his shoulder and moved back inside while Jubilee led him to her office and Buckley walked behind Padlock, watching Roseluck wince from the pain in her head while trying to shake off Padlock’s monster-like grip. This was the first time Buckley was able to get a decent look at Roseluck without grit inside his eyes or his head being clubbed by a tire iron. She shared the same hair colour and highlights as Jubilee, except with a rosier hue; the arrangement of her hair was much messier too, with strands overlapping each other and awkwardly jutting out in random areas. Her hands and face were visibly soft and her aroma, despite being crammed into Buckley’s trunk for such an extensive time, was reminiscent of a florist instead of an officer of the law.
Roseluck, now tightly fastened to the worn chair in Jubilee’s office by a length of rope, listened to Jubilee and Buckley speak outside the office while Padlock stood beside her. She would have attacked the bodyguard with a swift strike to the groin if it weren’t for the rope tying her legs to the chair. She fidgeted with the knot around her hands, trying, in a vain attempt, to free herself.
After a few minutes of quiet bickering and constant fidgeting, Jubilee and Buckley entered the office; Buckley stepped in with the grace of a sly fox, he slowly closed the door behind himself while trying to make as little noise as possible. But not before Jubilee stomped into the office as if she were a herd of stampeding cows; she headed for the corner to the left of the door and leaned against the wall, keeping her venomous glare fixated on Roseluck; Jubilee could outstare a painting if she tried. She folded her arms like a parent berating their children and started to tap something against the plaster wall.
Roseluck didn’t pay any attention to it at first, but started to recognise the off-beat tapping when it didn’t synchronise with the screeching and rapping of the machinery outside. She found the source quickly, prompting her fighting essence to somewhat sour as she saw Jubilee tapping a recently polished Webley against the wall with trifling willpower. The barrel, when connected with the wall, would slightly scrape across the plaster for a moment before starting its process again with an erratic length of time in between. Roseluck seemed to lose herself as she watched Jubilee, the constant tapping drowned out the noise of the machinery outside
The click of Buckley’s fingers brought Roseluck from her trance. In reaction to Buckley’s clicking she looked at him with earnest confusion, the friendly smile he wore was strangely out of place. After seeing Jubilee, she was unsure if she would be able to make it out alive; though, Buckley’s smile said otherwise, “Hey, are you alright?” Buckley asked, “You look like a ghost who just scared themselves.”
Jubilee was uncertain if that was a sly threat or not, but it was definitely true, the circulation in her body was starting to concentrate in her briskly beating heart, which felt like it would leap out of her throat. She nodded her head quickly while maintaining eye contact with Buckley, he smiled in return.
“That’s good.” A tap replaced the concise silence in Buckley’s sentence, “We just want to ask a few questions- is that ok?” Buckley raised his hand in a stop signal, as if providing the choice to decline, but the tapping pushed her to say yes. Roseluck nodded her head again, prompting Buckley to smile again, “Good, ok- uh. Where should we start? I already know that your name is Roseluck, my name is Goodwill Buckle- but everybody calls me Buckley- Are you hungry or thirsty at all?” Another tap.
Roseluck, now thinking about it, was feeling famished and parched, but still declined despite the strange hospitality Buckley was presenting. His smile faltered slightly, though he still remained cordial.
A resounding tap, followed by a very faint tap, occurred before Buckley spoke again, “You know- you have quite the swinging arm” Buckley said as he massaged the bruised area on his head, feeling around the lump that was starting to grow, “knocked me out cold. I’m surprised that I’m not drooling in a wheelchair right now.”
Roseluck smirked for a moment, but a quick tap reminded her of the metaphorical pit she had fallen into, “Sorry… about that.” she said weakly.
“Ah, there’s no need to worry about it.” Buckley said as he waved his hand nonchalantly, “A bit of rest and ice will fix it right up.” Roseluck expected a sly tap to break the silence, but none occurred, “Let’s move onto the questions- shall we?” Buckley received a nod in response, “Ok, first question: How did you know to apprehend me?” The question was asked with a dull tone, but a cheerful facial expression.
A quick tap against the plaster wall pushed Roseluck out of her hesitation, “We heard reports of naval activity occurring just outside the docks and I was sent to investigate. When I arrived, you were talking to the spokesperson of the Los Zetas and, well- I’m not going to get involved with that. I’d like to stay alive- when can I go?” She tugged at her binds slightly as she added the last part, her pale hands were beginning to feel numb.
“So, why did you try to arrest me then?” Buckley asked, ignoring her question. He sat on the desk a few feet from Roseluck, knocking over a pen holder and creasing the pages on the open ledger on the desk. This, of course frustrated Jubilee and prompted her to shift her piercing stare to Buckley for a moment. He noticed the shift, but didn’t pay it any attention; he kept his inquisitive, yet approachable, gaze fixated on Roseluck, “How did you know I wasn’t with the cartel?” he added.
Roseluck replied immediately, “I didn’t. I saw you were alone, and thought I could apprehend you.” She looked down at her shoes as she added the last part, embarrassed as she remembered how she botched such an opportunity to snag her first criminal. Buckley looked down at his shoes as well; he too, was embarrassed as he remembered how he was almost overpowered by a girl. He decided to blame it on the freezing temperatures. A tap occurred, and Roseluck and Buckley looked up from their shoes, almost simultaneously, as they were called to attention. Then, Buckley noticed the stifled dread in Roseluck’s damp eyes as she tried to hide her terror behind her cool demeanour, he heard the quivering peaks in her voice when she spoke, and he finally detected the short, panicked breathes of air brushing against his knuckles. Roseluck was definitely scared, even when she tried to look brave.
“Well, lucky for you, I wasn’t. The Los Zetas are ruthless and we are in no way affiliated with them.”
Roseluck was immediately doubtful of Buckley’s explanation, she had seen him dealing with them, “But, I saw you talking to them and then taking-
“What you saw,” Buckley interjected, “was the Los Zetas tricking me and stealing her… merchandise. As I was saying, we are not the Los Zetas, so we don’t plan to kill you- well, not me at least.” He pointed towards Jubilee and said, “You have her to worry about.” Roseluck wasn’t sure if she should find comfort in what Buckley said, it sounded as if it was meant to be uplifting, but it wasn’t presented well.
Buckley continued to ask questions while Roseluck, nearing the start was quite hesitant, would answer them to the best of her ability. He shot off questions while she shot off answers; they mainly revolved around Roseluck’s life and what is going to happen to her afterwards. At the end, Buckley got enough information to get a rough idea of Roseluck’s current life; she manages a flower shop with two of her other friends, Daisy and Lilly Valley, but she needed to find another source of income. She got into the force, thanks to her friend persuading the Chief of Police to temporarily hire her without needing to complete an application or any exams. Though, she wasn’t trusted with a firearm, not after her horrendous display in the firing range; there were more holes in the cardboard cut-outs of civilians than there are holes in Swiss cheese. Each time Roseluck answered a question, she would try to plead with Buckley, claiming that she wouldn’t tell anyone about their operations. She also claimed she would find another job and forget about the whole incident, but Buckley, and most definitely Jubilee, were still doubtful about her discretion.
When Buckley seemed to fall short of questions and silence filled the office, Roseluck took an opportunity to ask a question of her own, “What did you do before all of… this?”
It was a strange question to ask at such a strange time, and Buckley was taken aback for a moment before deciding to humour her. The truth appeared to lodge in his throat, but after a few minutes of weighty thinking and hasty predicting, the truth came undone, “I used to work as a business consultant.” A succinct chuckle came from Buckley before he spoke again, “That’s how I ended up in this business. I invested so much money for other people, and I was pretty good at it. But then- Well, an opportunity to invest into an oil freighter came up. Investing into an oil freighter isn’t easy, but it is quite lucrative. I invested for the Street Devils as well.” The mention of the gangs name seemed to confuse Roseluck for a moment. She had definitely heard of the group, but she had never thought they could invest into such a thing. Buckley noticed her confusion and gave a brief explanation, “The gang may look impoverished, but those are just branches of the gang that have been forgotten about, so there’s nobody to keep them in line. Anyway, I invested nine hundred and fifty million dollars into the freighter and by the end of the day, I had lost eight hundred million dollars.” He rubbed his hands for a moment, bringing warmth to his fingertips, “When the Street Devils found out that I hadn’t stolen the money and realised that it was a mistake, they acquitted me, but also employed me and forced me to work for them until the debt was payed off. This all happened about a month ago and I’ve hardly raised a hundred thousand.”
There’s a strange, psychological phenomenon that can occur when captives are taken, and the reason for this phenomenon is usually due to compassion. It is called the Stockholm syndrome and Roseluck was beginning to feel the beginnings of it. A feeling of sympathy washed over her as she heard Buckley’s unfortunate tale, and somewhere, inside her mind, she felt as if he was the victim, caught in the middle of a mess he never wanted to be in. Though, he was the one who bludgeoned her, stuffed her into his car and was now interrogating her. Silence, again, filled the room for a few seconds, until it was broken by a meddling tap.
“Anyway,” Buckley started. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, the resounding beat jolted Roseluck, “Enough about me, let’s focus on how you are going to get out of this alive. Now, you claim that you won’t tell anyone if we let you go-
“I won’t, I swear.” Roseluck interrupted.
“But, she is not completely sold on your discretion.” Buckley pointed in the general direction of Jubilee, “and, as I am sure you have gathered by now, she is in charge here. I do what she says, no questions asked. However, I’d prefer that you didn’t die for no reason, and I’m sure you would as well.” Roseluck responded with a quick nod. “Good. Now, in order to ensure your discretion, we need to keep you supervised and away from anything that could tempt you to speak about us. We need you to resign from your job as a police officer and ‘join’ us until we find a better solution.” As expected, Roseluck looked as if she had been slapped in the face, but before she could speak Buckley added a comment, which was followed by a slight tap, “However, if you decline my offer, you will have her to worry about.”
Not even a second passed before Roseluck answered, her deductive logic came into full effect as she spoke, “So, if I don’t agree with you; I’m going to be killed by her?” Roseluck motioned her head to gesture towards Jubilee, “And if I side with you, I have quit my job as a law officer and be permanently monitored, or until an alternative appears?”
“More or less.” Buckley replied.
“Well then, I have no reason to decline your offer. I don’t have suicidal tendencies and I would much prefer to live.” She tugged at her bonds again, “Can I go now?”
“Not exactly.” Buckley hopped off the desk and moved behind Roseluck, “We still need to talk about some details, such as who is going to manage you, or how you are going to compensate for your resignation from the force.” The rope constricting Roseluck’s hands started to loosen as he started to fumble with the vexing knot, “I have taken it upon myself to watch you, and I have negotiated with her,” Buckley pointed to Jubilee, “to reimburse you.”
Jubilee’s face and attitude soured a little when Buckley finished speaking. She hadn’t agreed to such things, she didn’t even know that Roseluck’s shared business existed before this conversation. Jubilee would have spoken out and contested Buckley’s lies, but she decided against it and continued with the act. However, if looks could kill, Buckley would be writhing on the floor and frothing at the mouth.
Buckley, however, hoped with all his heart that Jubilee wouldn’t throttle him afterwards. What he said now was mandate, and he would take full responsibility for anything said. A smile crept up on Roseluck as she thought about her captor endowing her, but she quickly forced it into a neutral expression, lest her new privileges be taken away. “Right, if you could, please wait outside. Padlock, would you please accompany her?” he scoffed at Buckley, but still obliged and grabbed Roseluck by her arm and led her outside the office. The next few words were an absolute surprise, Buckley expected Jubilee to shriek at him and leap down his throat and refuse to endow Roseluck. Instead, she remained in the corner, her Webley was still cradled in her loose hands, but it no longer drummed against the wall.
“Mr. Buckle,” She started, “Or I guess I should say Buckley, since we will be getting to know each other real soon. You have managed get yourself involved in quite an insidious operation; a deep, deep pit that will be difficult to get out of and I hope you will be willing to get dirty.” Jubilee pushed herself out of the corner and moved towards the desk, “I have to see about prolonging our deaths. You should start looking for leads in order to find Pedro, I’m sure you will have fun with that. Now, please get out of my office, you’ve made enough mess, you don’t need to spread it to my desk.” Buckley could almost taste the venom in her words.
Outside, the machinery stood still, but only for a few seconds. The worn conveyer belts and scratched metal stayed idle in the blissful silence as they waited to be started again. When they were, the cherries moved again from point A to point B in a swift, automatic motion. Roseluck watched in subtle awe as the assembly line of produce moved to their allocated areas, the smell of sour air invaded her nostrils and the chuffing machinery eliminated the silence in an instant. Her eyes burnt for a moment as they adjusted the thick cloud of cigarette smoke throughout the factory. Buckley hardly noticed the changed as he stepped outside the office, except for the prominent change in temperature which prompted him to reach into his jacket and retrieve the flask in his pocket. He unscrewed the lid and took a swig of the cheap scotch inside. It burnt, at first, when the sizzling liquid danced across his tastebuds, then the liquor went down in a quick swallow and warmed Buckley from the inside, “Roseluck?” he asked.
“Yes?” she replied as she wiped her fogging eyes.
“My house isn’t close by and I am going to have to ditch my car, what about your house?”
“Neither is mine.”
Buckley took a deep breathe in and released a long sigh, which was oozing with frustration, “Right, I’ll get a taxi- Padlock? Can I borrow those handcuffs?” he received a strange glance in reply, but he still procured the items, “Thanks. Even though you are under my management, Roseluck, I still need to make sure you can’t leave my supervision, so I will have to handcuff you to something before you sleep tonight. Do you understand?”
Roseluck nodded, but didn’t exactly agree with him. It was a reasonable thing to do, but she wasn’t planning on fleeing at this point in time, “I’ll call work and tell them I want to resign.” She said.
“And I’ll call a taxi, and tell them I want to go home.” Roseluck nodded again in response, as did Buckley in response to her nod. Padlock kept a keen eye on Roseluck, ensuring that she wasn’t leaking information to her co-workers as she spoke on the phone. Buckley doubted that she would deteriorate an agreement while under close inspection, and sure enough, Roseluck left her job without any problems or questions, just requests to return the equipment that was given to her. Both of them moved outside and waited for the taxi to arrive. The chilling wind assaulted both of their faces and hands, forcing them to dig their hands deep into their pockets and raise their collars to protect their necks.
An uncomfortable silence floated around both of them as they waited, providing enough time for them to realise the events that had just unfolded. As they thought about it, they both realised that in order to survive this criminal world, they needed to work together.
