Pizza, Liquor & Lead

Two days later…

It was a fine day in Barrel Bay.

The typical morning showers had died out by midday, and a gray overcast sky with the occasional break in the cloud cover allowing some warm sunlight to filter through to the city below. Even though the streets were still slick and large, glassy puddles had yet to evaporate, many residents were out and about, going about their business with a bit more enthusiasm thanks to the dry reprieve. This was most evident at all the bodegas, bistros, and other assorted eateries which scores patronized for decent, lunch hour meals.

One such place was a humble little establishment underneath a brownstone residential building. Green and white striped awnings covered a small streetside dining area with a few seats taken and two folding blackboards flanked the entrance. One showed the house lasagna speciale drawn out in several colors of chalk along with a bottle of soda and the meal’s two bit price, and the other had a listing of various sides offered alongside the main course.

It may have not been a full house yet, but the staff were already working at maximum efficiency to cater to the coming mob, with many pans of lasagna already baking in the wood fired ovens while the chefs spun up fresh pasta and prepared even more tins along with other entrees for serving. And those who served the customers did so with courteous gusto, cantering out of the kitchen with meals ready, and came back with dishes and bits, along with the occasional good tip.

Above all the hustle and bustle of city life, the second story had been renovated into office space for a more nefarious kind of business. The restaurant may have been a decent earner in its own right, but it was also a front for bigger business, the kind that some long time diners might not appreciate. In the biggest office, the boss was reading that morning’s paper, and two of his guys were waiting for instruction as he scanned the headlining story.

A massive explosion rocked the river district last night, sending shrapnel into adjacent buildings and portions of the structure sky high. Due to the tropical depression, authorities couldn’t muster a response until the morning, but the downpour helped to mitigate extra fire damage.

As for the five killed, the remains found at the scene were so badly damaged that investigators are as of yet unable to identify any potential victims or perpetrators. Furthermore, there were eyewitness reports of a commotion in the area preceding the explosion, which also resulted in a sixth death not far from the brewery.

That pony has been identified as Weenie Buns, and his body was pulled out of the river this morning. Due to the wrecked steam wagon a little ways away, it was initially assumed to be an accident which claimed him, but the bullet wounds found all over his body now suggest foul play.

Rumors abound about Buns’s potential involvement in the explosion and association with organized crime in Barrel Bay. Some say he acted as a middleman between gangs and others referred to him as a “slimy rat” only interested in scamming and robbing as many ponies as possible for his own ends.

Whatever that involvement may have been, the outcome will more than likely result in more street violence in the coming days.

The griffon known as Kure along with the stallion known as Snapper Cell were lounging on the green sofa across from the long desk occupying the center of the room, waiting on Sea Moon to finish his reading. The paper rippled in the elder’s hooves as he harshly flips through the last few pages, great puffs of smoke racing for the ceiling as he mumbled almost incoherently. Even though the text of the front page was backwards for reading, Kure’s incredible eyesight made it easy for him to decipher the headline.

Booze war reignites: Five killed in illicit brewery explosion!

That was the story of the day for the Barrel Bay Tribune, and it was big enough that only one sub-article could fit in the margins. It was a technical issue about a new portable radio with a battery which promised up to two hours of play.

The moment the newspaper was slammed onto the desk in a huff, his guests immediately straightened up for the coming questioning. Sea Moon, however, broke with a statement.

“As you know,” the stallion tapped on the newspaper with the tip of a hoof. “This paper rarely lies, and what they say is bad for us as that was our brewery, the last one, mind you.”

He stared his constituents down for a few seconds, daring either one to start making excuses. Confident he wasn’t going to receive any backtalk. He leaned back into his chair and took a protracted drag off his cigarette.

“You’know boys. I’m starting to think that folks don’t much like our booze anymore.” He turned in his seat to stare at the map of the known world pinned to the wall, a thoughtful frown on his muzzle.

“That was our last brewery in the city. If we don’t get a full air shipment from Klugetown soon we’ll be hurtin’ for buyers. How many got through?”

Kure was never a fan of delivering bad news to powerful individuals, but he’d never fallen victim to pawing around the bush like those more timid might. Even though he was indebted to the old stallion, he still offered respect.

“None, sir.”

“Wha’?!”

There was fire and brimstone in the boss’s eyes from the admission, and when he rocked back viciously in his seat the smoldering cigarette vacated his hoof and fell upon the desk. Kure continued delivering his report.

“The rumrunners say they were all destroyed by the navy or otherwise captured by harbor police.”

“And how the fuck did that all happen!”

The griffon knew exactly how that had been allowed to transpire, but his partner in crime was way more versed in the particulars.

“Mister Strew.” Snapper let that name hang for a moment. “He forgot to pay them off, sir.”

“That dumbass fuckstick!”

Sea Moon practically leapt from his seat and proceeded to angrily pace around the shuttered window, smatterings of curses dripping from his bared teeth. “Thinks he can screw me, I’ll show…”

He rounded on his constituents and pointed his hoof at them. “Have him killed! And make it messy.”

Snapper could only rub the back of his neck, sheepishly. “Uh, you already had him killed.”

“I did? Why?!”

“For fucking your wife,” Snapper offered, hoping to jog a memory.

“So that’s why he forgot to buy off the feds,” Kure chuckled at the memory of that job as it was a memorable one.

Snapper also remembered that one, and joined in.

“You chuckleheads best be glad you’re good earners, I’d wax the floor with you otherwise.”

Sea Moon returned to his chair and lit up a fresh cigarette. He took a drag and tapped his forehooves together, planning his next move.

“If we don’t get good booze fast we’re gonna hit rock bottom, and that doesn’t count for the both of you. That fucker must have been workin’ with those dogs for some time. If they want a godsdamned war, I’ll give them one.”

He spread his hooves apart and put his weight onto the desktop.

“I want you to take a truck to their spot and steal as much booze as you can. Distribute it to all the friendly clubs for Nightmare Night, that should float us for some time.”

“Understood, boss,” Snapper acknowledged.

Sea Moon pointed his cigarette at Kure, them Snapper.

“And if anyone so much as sneezes your way…”

He brought his hoof down upon his ashtray, crushing the cigarette.

“Ice them!”

The truck which had been oh-so-graciously bestowed upon them by one of the mob’s fences rattled and lurched over each divot in the road. Compared to the sedan they usually rolled around in, the interior was spartan and cramped, with only the most necessary gauges bolted into the dashboard. It was also hot, with the boiler not being shielded from the cab, so they had rolled down the windows and opened every vent which could be found despite it being mid-autumn.

And in a bit of a twist, Kure was behind the wheel.

Driving was something that the griffon could take or leave. Steam Wagons were unheard of in Griffonstone, and even in the land of plenty he found little need to burn his salary up on one when legs and wings got him around just fine. Times had changed; needs as well, and in order to be productive he’d needed to at least know how to operate them. And, well, it had paid off in more ways than one.

Tucked in between Kure and Snapper was a third passenger, and she had somehow gotten a talon out of her swaddling and had been grabbing at her father’s side ever since. Little trills of joy would escape her beak whenever a straight patch of road was found and he reached down to give a little pat to her head. It was sometimes tiring to take care of her, but that was what was getting him out of bed every morning those days.

“Thanks for letting me pick up my little one, Snap. With how things are getting around here I don’t want her exposed to violence. Plus my sister’s been dying to meet her ever since I wrote her the news.”

Snapper was using his time riding shotgun to tear down and clean his blunderbuss. The black powder the cartridges used was a messy affair, so the pony was meticulous in caring for his firearm. The barrels had been completely separated from the stock and he was scrubbing at the action with a cotton swab. It was somewhat of a miracle he had the dexterity to do all that in spite of all the bumps in the road.

“No problem, Kure. It’s the least I can do for you.” Snapper, now finished with the swabs, had reattached the barrels and was now pushing a tough bristled brush down one of them. “Didn’t know you had family over here.”

Kure shrugged. “Yeah, two. A brother and sister who followed me over. My older sister works with textiles and my younger brother is on an airship somewhere. Likes the sky. How about you?”

“I have some family inland, and some about an hour away.” Sandbar had moved on to cleaning the other barrel, and Kure didn’t miss his sullen response.

“He got dirt on you too, huh?”

“Yup.” He snapped the gun shut and started to look over the priming mechanism. “He found out I was more into the same sex and, well…”

Kure struggled to find a response to that. Snapper was the closest thing to a friend he had in that world and that wouldn’t change because he swung a different way, so he looked into his reflection in the rearview mirror and sighed.

“It’s always love, huh? That’s how the boss gets ya’.”

“Yeah. I suppose so.”

Even though being on a job was serious business, Kure wasn’t one to wallow in misery. Humor was important even if his sense of it had grown morbid as of late, so he managed what he could.

“Hey,” he lightly punched Snapper in the shoulder. “With the way that fat bastard eats, drinks, and smokes, he will die of a heart attack or something and we will be free of his bullshit.”

“Ha! Not if he dies choking on his favorite meal first.”

The griffon didn’t really grasp what Snapper was getting at, but when he saw that pony gesturing at his own crotch with a hoof he quickly got the picture.

Three separate laughs filled the cab, two being loud and guffawing and the third sharp and warbly, completely innocent of the context of the joke.

Five more minutes of driving and bullshitting later, they had pulled into a seedy looking establishment. Kure was quick to park up, gently take his daughter into his arms and make his way to the entrance. Another griffon came out of the doorway to meet him, and on stature alone Snapper could pick out that it was a female who appeared to be around the same age or a little older than her brother. They chatted for a few minutes in front of a backdrop of misaligned brickwork and a flickering neon sign, and then he handed his child off to her. He’d also passed her an envelope which was most likely stuffed with bits, which she graciously accepted.

When Kure returned to the driver’s seat, Snapper couldn’t help but muse.

“I still can’t believe the boss’s girl left her like that.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Kure agreed. “But I’m fairly certain she’ll never forget about me.”

With family matters settled for the time being, the duo rolled back into the city under waning light. In place of a pram, Kure’s submachine gun now occupied the center of the bench seat, ready to handle any snags with ruthless efficiency.

Getting to the Diamond Dog’s Distillery wasn’t too difficult even though traffic was a bit heavy due to the holiday, and they were able to roll up to the spot just as the sun dipped below the horizon. Kure had been savvy enough to park on the street adjoining it so they could walk up without too much noise. The entry had an open gate attached to a perimeter fence, and conspicuously, no sentries guarding the lot. The building itself had a cargo door which would serve their interests if things went well, but the service entrance next to it would be their way in.

They both stepped up to either side of the door and listened for happenings within. Oddly enough, there were hardly any sounds permeating the warehouse walls. Even on a national holiday there would have been some presence at such a place, but there was a job to be done and no time to waste.

Snapper positioned himself in front of the door and grinned.

“Allow me.”

He raised a rear leg up and delivered a solid buck to the door with a shod hoof. The door smashed open with a very audible crack, and the duo filed through. They immediately opened fire on any position that could be used as cover by defenders. Kure raked several controlled bursts from the hip at some stacks of crates and Snapper found two support columns to blast at. The last reports of gunfire reverberated off brick and wood, and when all was quiet Snapper was only left with a question.

“Why’s nobody here? Surely they’d want to guard their still.”

“Who gives a fuck. Nobody around means our lives get a helluva lot easier. Let's get that drink loaded up and get outta here.”

“Yeah. I still wonder though…” Snapper trailed off, eyeing the second floor overseer’s office.

“Alright, yeah. I’ll go get the truck. You hold down the fort, and if anybody comes out-”

“Blast them,” Kure cut him off. “I know the drill.”

Time flew quickly from that point. Snapper had gotten the truck backed into the loading bay and as night fell they both toiled to get as many casks as possible into the bed. Even next to the open bay the work was sweltering and by the time the truck was filled beyond rated capacity, jackets had been doffed and ties had been loosened considerably.

“Alright,” Kure huffed. “She looks fit to break in half If we try loading more. Let’s get moving, we can have the guys come in later and clean this place out.”

As the heavily laden wagon crawled out of the yard, there was already trouble brewing. In the locked overseer’s office, things had gone awry earlier that evening. There were signs of a struggle; six Diamond dog corpses littered the room, all sporting bullet holes and spent sidearms on or near their bodies. Some had bled out considerably onto the floor, they being unfortunate to have to writhe in agony as death slowly consumed them. Busted and overturned chairs had been strewn about as well, suggesting that things had been peaceful at some point.

On the relatively unscathed table in the center of it all, the shot glasses the group had been consuming alcohol out of sat empty, and a large unlabeled bottle positioned in the middle was uncorked and half empty.

The friendly establishment they had chosen to deliver to was an old haunt for many working under Sea Moon. It was one of the biggest nightclubs in town, but due to equestrian liquor law it couldn’t publically operate as such. So, officially, it was an ice cream bar called The Windigo.

Some very heavy-set porters were already hanging out on the street corner when they pulled up. Obviously informed of the delivery, they made immediate work of lowering the tailgate and untying the cargo. Snapper and Kure offered their assistance in rolling the casks through the side entry and down into the cellar, where another group was draining the new deliveries into a vat. When the vat was about half full, they stopped the flow of whiskey and brought over two hoses attached to the water main.

The process of cutting with water was essential for their illicit business. Profits were tight on the best of nights and on a holiday they needed to stretch their reserve as much as possible to keep the taps flowing and get the best return.

After an hour’s work helping out in the cellar, it was time to square up with the proprietor. As they ascended the spiral staircase leading up to his office, they could hear the first tunes coming from the big band who had no doubt taken the stage. Stomping and a dull roar of ceaseless conversation were also mixed in and if they weren’t on the clock, the hall would have been an immediate destination.

When they entered the office, the middle-aged minotaur who ran the shop greeted them with a grin.

“Hey, you boys brought me some nice bourbon.”

He was known to be a laid-back sort, only wearing a simple white button-up shirt with rolled sleeves, suspendered gray trousers, and black loafers. The bottle he held up to light shone back with a deep amber. His establishment of course offered alcohol uncut for high rollers, and it wasn’t too surprising that he kept some for personal consumption as well.

Kure was rather quick to throw out a response. “Yeah, sure thing. We need our pay.”

“Bah!” He dropped himself into a chair and poured himself a finger. “You kids these days are moving too fast. Why not have a drink with me? On the house!”

There were two extra glasses calling out to be filled on the table, and Snapper was the first to hesitantly heed them. “Well, one shot wouldn’t hurt. Right, Kure?”

“Emph, fine.”

“Now that's the spirit!”

Two more drinks were poured and slid over, and without pause the barkeep slammed his back. The moment he set his glass upon the table something was… off.

Neither Snapper nor Kure knew much about races other than their own, but they at least figured that minotaurs would be excellent at handling their liquor. But with the way the old guy was sputtering and wheezing it looked like he was a real lightweight. Then he doubled over, holding his gut and hyperventilating. That wasn’t a reaction that anybody would have to regular whiskey, let alone a barman, and worry took over the entire room.

With dawning expressions of horror, they were going to physically intervene and see if the minotaur needed a doctor or something, but what happened next stunned them into silence. With a groaning howl, he arched back his trembling head, pupils contracted to pinpricks and an expression of animalistic fear all over his face. Engorged blood vessels in his neck and brow pulsed visibly, and his complexion had gone several shades darker, as though all the blood in his body was rushing to his head.

Kure and Snapper anxiously glanced between themselves, the spectacle before them, the drinks below, and in one succinct motion, pushed the filled glasses towards the center of the table. It was truly all they could do in their collective, stupefied state as things got even scarier.

Massive boils were cropping up all around his head, and one of his now yellow bloodshot eyes was swelling up at an alarming rate. The lid stretched as it struggled to retain the eye, and with a sickening pop it erupted out of the socket and squelched against Kure’s chest.

“Gyah!” he cried out while staggering back. “What the hell is happening!”

“I don’t know!” Snapper cried back. “But it was obviously in the drink!”

“What?! Poison?!”

The pony pointed desperately at the disembodied eye rolling around on the floor. “Does that look like poison to you?!”

The macabre creature who had been talking jovially just thirty seconds prior started to find his footing. The chair toppled backwards as he stood tall, and his remaining eye narrowed dangerously. Jaundiced yellow had replaced previously white sclera, and bloodshot veins crossed over it like a weave, giving a falsely red appearance. Two bulging hands grabbed the edge of the table and with an unnatural bellow, he chucked it right at his company as though it were nothing more than a minor nuisance.

Kure and Snapper were able to dash out of harm's way as their glasses sailed past their heads. The sound of wood smashing against the wall was dull and muted to Kure as all his attention was focused on the threat. His world was no stranger to the strange and unusual, but the tales he’d heard were always just that. Now it was him who had encountered something unexplainable. As the once minotaur charged, the griffon could only act on instinct and dive out of the way of the raging bull. That saved him, but his companion wasn’t so lucky.

Snapper could hardly flinch before two outstretched hands grabbed him around the neck and pummeled him into a brick wall. The hit drove the air right out of his lungs, and it was a struggle to inhale past his crushed windpipe. The primal urge to breathe had Snapper first trying to pry the arms away, and when that failed, trying to hit the guy in the face. Something hard and wooden had been pinned between himself and the minotaur, and with a brief flash of hope he tried to get purchase on his blunderbus. That didn’t stop him from gasping out a plea to his partner.

“Kure! Do something!”

Kure’s first motion when he alighted on the brawl was to raise his submachine gun, but he refrained from firing. The risk of overpenetration was too great at such a close range, so he let the gun hang from its sling as he looked for something more suitable. He bounded for the fireplace as soon as his eyes settled upon it and picked up a small axe from atop the mantle.

As Kure ran up on the two, he could see that Snapper was getting pale and his assailant showed no signs of letting up anytime soon. With a cry, he hefted the axe above his head and brought it down onto the minotaur’s back. With a crunch of bone and sinew, the axe head was embedded deep just to the right of the spine, and the damage to it and surrounding vital organs would have instantly felled any normal creature, but to his consternation the target somehow remained upright.

To Snapper’s immense relief, the vice-like grip wringing his neck had slackened from the hit, and he was able to belt out a command. “Hit him again! Hit him again!”

Shaken from brief reverie, Kure nodded and tried to pry the axe out for another strike, but an arm slammed back and sent him skating across the floor. An ethereal roar echoed through the room as the enraged minotaur chased after his next victim. Feline reflexes wanted to see Kure out of trouble, but he was barely on his toes when the big guy gut-punched him into a wall, which he crumpled into a dazed heap at the bottom of.

The moment he was free, Snapper hastily readied his blunderbuss for firing while moving after the minotaur. His breaths were ragged and his hooves were shaking, but muscle memory allowed him to get the primers pulled back. The minotaur had really done a number on his partner and fearing that he wouldn’t reach him in time, the stallion hollered with all the volume he could muster.

“Hey! Ugly!”

The minotaur spun his bulk around to face Snapper so fast that he was almost a blur, but the gun-toting stallion was still fast enough to jam the muzzle of his weapon into a gaping maw and pull both triggers. The minotaur’s head exploded into a shower of blood, bone and gray matter, which Kure tried to get out of the way of, but quite a bit got on him regardless.

“Yeesh!” He cried out once he’d taken in the night’s gory turn. “Remind me to never introduce you to any of my associates!”

“What!” Snapper yelled back. “This ain’t my doing! He lost his fucking head!”

“Well…” Kure tried to wipe some of the minotaur off his sleeve only to make the mess a little worse. “It’s all over the place now. What do you think happened to him?”

The pony lifted his blunderbuss slightly. “What do you think happened?”

“I mean before you blew his fucking head off!”

Snapper went silent as the situation started to settle in his mind. A soft oh passed his lips, and after a moment he found the wherewithal to give an opinion.

“I don’t know Kure. Maybe something in the booze?”

His eyes lingered on the shattered bottle near his hooves. Not two minutes ago things had made perfect sense, but now…

“Yeah,” Kure snidely responded. “I gathered that much.”

The griffon’s next sentence was spoken in a near panic.

“Shit! The bar! They’re drinking it too!”

With expanding terror in their hearts, the duo galloped over to the giant plate glass window which allowed a great view into the lounge and pulled the curtain to see…

They both stumbled back with yells as close to a dozen nightclub patrons pressed their faces into the glass. Just like Mr. Minotaur, they had all undergone grotesque mutations to their bodies, but the extra minutes they had to morph made things all the more disgusting. Several eyes had rolled out their sockets and fur was falling off sagging hides, leaving behind a wrinkly, oozing mess.

There were supposed to be armed sentries guarding the area, Kure thought tersely. They hadn’t responded to the scuffle in their boss’s office, so they must have responded to the main event in the dancehall. Clearly, they had been overrun by the horde and now it was moving onto the last survivors. They would not be easy prey.

“That glass won’t hold, Snap!” the griffon bellowed. “Try and get that door open!”

Acting on an instinctual knowledge of having shot well over half a drum off earlier in the evening, Kure wrenched the magazine out the bottom of his airgun and replaced it with a fresh drum which he kept in reserve on himself for when shit really hit the fan. Giving the magazine a good slap to ensure it was seated, he charged the cocking handle and glanced at the ejection port to see the tip of the canvas belt sticking out slightly.

Kure held his gun at low ready. He breathed hard and could feel the panic swelling in his chest, but he wanted to wait as long as he could before firing, but he also knew that at any moment the glass would…

There was a soft crunch as tiny cracks formed in the corner, and a split second later they spiderwebbed across the pane. As soon as the glass caved, Kure pulled the trigger. The gun bucked into his hip as he began to smoothly sweep the muzzle from side to side, and he made sure to use his body to guide the volley rather than limb. The arcane tubes glowed bright as they pumped air into the tank and within the cone of suppressing fire, the lead balls tearing fourth on compressed air impacted into the front row with little spurts of blood jetting out of their torsos as many of them staggered back.

Snapper, as ordered, was working on an exit. He had reloaded his blunderbuss in case it was needed, and then he started bashing at the door with his shoulder. Any old wooden door would have assuredly caved, but the oak plank was resisting quite well. One glance back toward his compatriot desperately chopping down an entire horde of what could only be considered undead gave a boost of desperate energy. With a whinny of displeasure at the one thing standing in the way of salvation, he took a step back to rear up a leg and give the door a solid buck.

The door flew open with enough force to break off its sturdy hinges and crash to the ground outside. And that was just in time for Kure’s gun to fall silent, its entire magazine depleted. The griffon’s eyes shone with panic as the horde only grew in intensity, and he wasted no time dashing out into the alley with Snapper in tow.

Out in the cramped alleyway, the duo sprinted like their asses were on fire through a cold autumn rain and the puddles it left behind. The wagon was parked just around the corner, and it would need a few moments to pick up steam, but it was a place of safety in the escalating chaos and one which the duo happily jumped into.

Well, Kure chose the cab as his safe haven, but in his own adrenaline-fueled terror Snapper vaulted over the tailgate and scrambled to the front of the bed. As for the griffon, he knew how to get a wagon going on a good day, but this was the first time he’d had to fire one up under duress. Much of the process was automated, but from a cold start the boiler needed time to build some pressure.

As the burners ticked away on high and the needle of the pressure gauge started to creep up, Kure could see the first of the pursuers shamble out the door through the cracked and stained driver mirror. They had no trouble alighting on their prey and a balled fist pounded on the dashboard in frustration.

“Come on! Build! Come on you old ass thing!”

As the hoarde drew near, Snapper opened fire, dropping one outright. The corpse tripped up a few others and sent them to the ground, but they still crawled on as those with better footing took the lead. They were now only several truck lengths behind and slowly closing, but a few had entered the road in front as well. With deranged moans now gracing his ears from multiple directions, Kure tried to will the pressure to rise faster.

The needle was getting close, but he wanted to wait for the chime of minimum pressure as he didn’t want to risk stalling the machine and having to make a last stand on its roof. Any second the bell would ring, and any second the danger would be upon them, but they just had to be patient until the former rang true. Kure rested his boot on the throttle, and the instant he heard the positive dinging over his own thudding heart he stomped the pedal to the floor.

Even with the bare minimum of power, the truck lurched forward violently and rear tires shrieked for traction. Several of the undead were now directly in their path but Kure paid no heed as they thudded against the bumper and hood, two of them bouncing up into the air and one crunching under the wheels.

Just like that, they were free, but the panic didn’t ebb until the ordeal was a few blocks behind. Kure slowed to a much more sensible pace, and a rather polite tap on the divider glass was acknowledged and he slid it open. Snapper couldn’t possibly fit through the gap and take the shotgun seat, but he was able to at least get his head in to talk.

“The fuck was all that?!”

Snapper pulled his head back out to make sure they weren’t being tailed by anyone (or anything), and then came back in. I know booze can make ’ya mad and crazy, but that back there takes the cake!”

“You’re telling me!”

The cool night air swirling about the cabin helped to calm nerves, and Kure was now navigating towards an objective rather than running blind. “I hear some put drugs into their cut booze to make it stronger, just like the little bit of poppy opium the boys put in our special drinks, but this is something else, that’s for sure!”

Snapper couldn’t help the crease of worry in his tone. “”The dogs sell to other bars in the city! Think more of it got out?!”

“I sure hope not! But not all booze is the same, how we get around the law and all that! That one was probably a try at making something as cheap as possible! I’m more worried about the boss stickin’ us in shoes over this, really!”

Snapper was silent for a moment, then came back flat. “Did you grab the money?!”

Kure slammed his palm into the rim of the wheel.

“Fuck!”