This Town Ain't Big Enough (Interactive)

Asher Blackthorne

After delivering an order of alcohol as part of a trade caravan from New Chicago, Asher takes some time off at a local speak-easy.

Asher Blackthorne shouldered his way through the wooden doors of the bar open and stepped out into the afternoon sunlight. It felt damned good to stretch his legs after the long drive. The caravan had had to deal with bandit raids at least three times, which was a fair number considering the size of the caravan. But in the end, Asher had made a fair account of himself; he threw a lucky toss and exploded pick-up truck via Molotov cocktail through the passenger side window, while a bandit attempted to slug him with a club. The caravan leader happened to be behind him, thought it was awesome, and treated him to a round.

So here he was, already a little tipsy even though the sun indicated that it wasn't even past 3:00 yet, making his way through the crowded, cramped thoroughfares of New Denver. The roads seemed to follow no particular pattern, they just sprawled about and juxtaposed each other at strange angles, but he made his way towards the run-down motel that he had reserved a room in, eager for a sweat bath and a nap. Various lowlives and honest citizens brushed past him in the press, though he showed no reaction and stoically continued his pace. He habitually kept his eyes on the lower back of the people ahead of him so that people wouldn't make eye-contact; that was the best way to avoid trouble on the streets.

A disturbance ahead caught his attention. A group of leather-clad ruffians with white clown makeup on their faces were headed right for him. More in the mood for a sauna than a brawl, Asher opted to take the safe route, and moved off to the side of the road. He collided roughly with one's shoulder, however, due to the man's erratic movements. The clown-faced youth immediately reached for the long fiberglass shiv at his waist, but Asher had already knocked him flat on his ass with a shoulder throw.

"HAAAAAH?! What is this?! Did some little waster punk just touch one of the fucking craziest gangs this side of the Rockies?! HUUHHHHH?!" The biggest and craziest of the clowns whooped.

"On the bright side, at least I had the displeasure of meeting you clowns before I cleaned up." Asher replied. There are seven of them and one of me. I'll lose them in the crowd.

Asher slowly bent over and scraped up a handful of dirt, which he then tossed into the closest clown's eyes. The man laughed as he rubbed his face, some of the garish white makeup coming off on his hands. "IT'S HALF PAST THREE AND I HAVEN'T EVEN HAD MY BLOOOOOOOOOOOD FIX TODAY!"

Asher shouldered his way through the crowd into a side alley between two relatively sturdy-looking buildings, searched for the nearest climbable object, a corrugated metal support column, and began to climb.

Sheridan had just come into town and was already in trouble. Some asshole,on top of that a makeup faced asshole started following him around and messing with Sarah. He had been trying to trying to grab her and pull her off for about all of the day. He after the constant annoyance of this fucker, snapped and made a point to finally put him in his place with a swift punch to the center of his face. Sheridan felt the mans nose crack under his large fist. "Bugger off!" he yelled. This got the attention of his clown boy friends who Weren't to pleased with his actions. "Sarah get out of here im gonna try to lose these guys." he whispered. "but.." Sheridan cut her off."No. Go back to somewhere safe." he pleaded. With a defeated hmp Sarah ran off. He felt relived that he was fortunate enough to have gotten Sarah to get somewhere safe as he began to run through the largely unfamiliar city. "Fucking clowns" he muttered while sprinting like hell to get away from the goons. He found a ladder in a nearby alley which he scaled.

He quickly got to the top and jumped over a couple rooftops and on the fifth roof he stopped and loaded his Remington 700 and prepared to fight if he had to. He silently prayed nobody would follow him up and aimed at the roof he started from. Nothing. It seemed that his prayer was answered when he heard a rustling of metal piping behind him followed by a hand planted onto the roof.

"Stop you bastard!" he yelled. "I am not your bi...oh"

He realized that the man climbing over the top was not one of those paint faced freaks but another man who looked to be running from something as well. He started to wonder what when he snapped back to reality and the man coming over the top.

"If your not one of them who are you? Speak up lad!" He boomed trying to use his accent to make his voice sound large and burlier and waited for a response and kept his rifle trained on the mysterious figure who had just entered his life or death situation.

Asher Blackthorne

Hand over hand, Asher nimbly scaled the stanchion. He paused for a moment when he heard a voice from up above, but quickly remembered his situation and looked down below. The clowns were just reaching the mouth of the alleyway, and Asher had very little desire to find out what kind of weaponry they were packing when he was exposing his back on the side of some tenement.

Looks like I'll just have to deal with whatever is up here. Asher simultaneously released his hold on the stanchion, kicked up with his feet, planted both hands on the edge, and heaved himself over the side.

Get. The fuck. Out of my way!

Using the momentum of his jump, he planted a foot on the curl of the top of the wall and prepared to fling himself at the big man with the rifle. Fuck, a sniper!

"If your not one of them who are you? Speak up lad!"

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFF--- Asher had already begun his aerial tackle, so he directed himself downwards at the last moment, hitting the ground with his arms crossed in front of his head and rolling between the man's legs.

"Nope, gotta go, 'kay, thanks, bye!"

Asher sprightly sprang to his feet and immediately hurled himself off of the building, landing on a cloth awning a good 20 feet below him.

*Bzzzzrrrrrrrrrrpppp!* The heavy cloth held him for a second, but ripped and deposited him on top of a crowd of people, who cried out in pain and indignation. He didn't land on anyone directly, but they were all trapped underneath the awning.

Asher stumbled a bit from the impact, but it wasn't enough to stop him. He shoved some pedestrians out of the way and slipped into another alleyway, hoping to find another vantage point. The walls were flat, so he continued forward, out into the street.

Which was completely open. And had a good dozen clown-faced gang members lounging against the opposite wall, holding various weapons.

"Well, well, well. What has the clown dragged in today?" The center-most clown drawled, grinning. He twirled a bike chain in one hand and took a swig from the bottle of moonshine in the other.

"I think you've got the wrong guy," Asher replied disarmingly. "Big. Funny accent, packing a rifle. He's that wa--"

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Quick as an adder, the clown whips a metal tube out of the waist of his rolled down work jumpsuit and fires it. WHUMP! CLANG! A fork suddenly protrudes from the metal sheeting next to Asher. He glances around. The other clownsn are closing in on him.

The leader regains his slow drawl, "They call me Big Moe. You know why they call me big? It's because I kicked the shit out of the ones who didn't!"

"The fuck was that?" he stopped to think to himself.

He deiced it was time to go, find Sarah tell her he was alright, and shouldered his rifle leaving the roof. He hit the floor of the next ally and walked onto the street removing his beanie and jacket putting them in his backpack to try to conceal his identity as the man who messed up the face of one of those clowns.

"Fucking town." he said as he walked off.

He was about to walk of when he saw three or so more of the clowns and ducked out of sight. This turned out that he did attract attention when he wanted to slip out of sight. They stopped noticing the guy who rapidly tried to reduce his form and looked over, inspecting him.

"You scared boy?" one jeered

"No." he replied

"Hold on you look like the guy who messed up one of our boys." he stated

"No it wasn't me." he said

"Whatever. What kind of accent is that? Fucktardian, Gaylordish, or is it some Posh Stuck up European country?"

"Its Scottish you dumb fuck" he said standing up only to be knocked back down by a gut shot from some kind of club.

"That's right pal just stay down." he said in a sneering voice.

"Fine just fuck off." he said wincing in pain seeing he would be under their control if he tried to dispatch the two.

"You trying to tell me what I should do prick?" he replied.

"No I wa-" he was stopped by a hard and swift kick to the kidney followed by a heavy whack to the head from the first clowns club.

"Your com'in with us" the attacker said.

At this point being dragged he began to see strait again he noticed a very large group of the freaks standing backs to him looking down on someone. He heard a voice with a hint of disparity in it explaining something.


"I think you've got the wrong guy, Big. Funny accent, packing a rifle. He's that wa--" it said

"Bugger." He thought. "I knew he was working for them I should of killed him on sight I going soft now that fucker is goin-" He stopped as he realized the voice of the man he thought was their scout was cut short and was covered by a larger sounding one.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" The new voice boomed. "They call me Big Moe. You know why they call me big? It's because I kicked the shit out of the ones who didn't!" He threatened

"Oh fuck." he thought.

He then noticed that they stopped stopped momentarily and then open a hole in their circle. He felt himself swaying and then wight less in the air as he was thrown to the concrete and rolled into the center of the mob and stopped only when his semi-conscious form hit the strangers feet he had seen a just few minutes ago.

"Well nice to see you again lad." he stated in the most sarcastic tone he could muster. "bit of a bugger eh?" he said spoke again looking up. Which the stranger replied only with an awkward and angry look.

"Oh whats this big boy has himself a nice little toy." one of them said pointing to the Remington he inherited from his father still slung, and loaded, over his shoulder.

"No!" Sheridan put almost all his energy into the defiant comment only to receive another swift kick but this time to the face.

The one who called himself Big Moe took his beloved rifle and inspected it.

"Now...wear was I...oh yea, your gonna die!" he yelled

"Fuck" he thought.

Asher Blackthorne

Without saying a word, Asher reaches into his jacket and removes a small metal cylinder. He depresses a button, and with a click, he extends the baton.

"Hey Moe. If I hear one more word out of your goddamn clown mouth, so help me I'll take that fucking ridiculous nose and shove it up your ass, after I rip your hair out and strangle you with it, so help me God."

He sized up the situation. Twelve gang members, one (possibly incapacitated) ally, with a variety of weaponry. I can't do this... Gotta think of something else.

"Hey. Chuckles. I've got a proposition for you. I'm a pretty strong fighter, and you'd probably get quite a bit of street cred with the other gangs around here, or even with your own, if you beat me. So, let's fight, just you and me. One on one. Think you're up to it?"

Big Moe, moonshine discarded, junk pistol back in his waistband, and the bike chain wrapped around one fist, crossed his arms over his new rifle, considering the offer. Languidly, he lowered his hands, and replied, "No, little man, I think you're trying to be tricksy with me. I haven't been deputy-ringleader of the West Side Freakshow because I was stupid enough to get into little honor fights like this one. Get 'im, boys!" He snapped the rifle up and peered down the sights.

BOOM! Asher threw himself forward into a desperate roll as the bullet whinged over his arched back. He had gained about 10 feet, leaving 10 more to Big Moe, prompting him to zig-zag his way forward. Moe racked the bolt and backpedaled, as the rest of the gang closed in on him and Highlander back there. Moe's next shot missed Asher by a good two feet; that didn't stop it from emptying the brains of the clown who was holding the Scot down.

Asher smashed the rifle down with his baton and pivoted on his hip, using the momentum from his charge to plant a booted foot deep into Big Moe's gut. Boots scraping the rough-packed dirt street, Big Moe struggled to keep his balance. He swatted at his attacker with the rifle like one does a fly, but Asher caught the barrel and twisted, disarming him. In one fluid motion, Asher tossed the rifle into the air, lashed out with the baton in one hand to smash away Big Moe's fist, dropped the baton, and caught the rifle in both hands. He racked the bolt and shot point blank into Moe's gut, eliciting a sharp yowl of pain and desperation. Asher charged in like a boxer and rammed the wooden buttstock of the Remington 700 into the base of Big Moe's numerous flapping chins, then followed up with a quick one-two combo to the face, assisted by the 8oz steel shot incorporated into his gloves. Unconscious, Big Moe slumped to the ground, blood gushing profusely from his many wounds.

Asher swung around to check for threats, which there certainly were. One clown was practically on top of him, but he fixed that with a stock club to the gut that caused the clown to hunch over, followed by a quick downward thrust into the base of the clown's skull, dropping him like a sack of bricks. Satisfied that this makeup wearing sociopath wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, Asher raised the rifle to his shoulder and dumped the last two shots into the clowns farthest away from the engaged Scotsman, not trusting himself to chance hitting the ones involved in the melee.

Sheridan couldn't believe what he had just witnessed. He also felt like an ass for having to let this fierce man have to dispatch all the goons and not being able to help. His heart fluttered seeing his Remmington tossed about but felt safer knowing at least it was in friendly hands.

Slowly he gained purchase to the pavement planting his feet and stood up slowly. He was extremely lightheaded and his ears were ringing painfully. He felt around for his bayonet in his harness hoping to god it was still their and exhaled in relief when his hand gained purchase on the familiar grip of the hilt and drew it. He stepped to the first contact adrenaline pumping and buried the blade deep into the solar plexus of the man and gave it a twist. The man screeched in pain and cursed loudly. Sheridan raised he boot and planted it into the mans gut pushing him off the blade. Sheridan went in for the kill and plunged the cold steel into the mans temple killing him instantly.

He turned to see if he was clear only to discover two of them were charging him melee weapons drawn he braced for pain when the goon to rights chest exploded into a mess of pulpy chunks. Taking the opportunity the stranger gave him and leaped onto the other stabbing him furiously while emitting a deep roar looking into another clowns eye which obviously scared the living shit out of him because he ran faster than anyone he had seen away from the scene.

"Oi lad you alrig-...shit look out!" he said noticing yet another one of those fucker coming up behind the stranger. It was now or never he focused his vision on the assailant flipping the blade to hold the tip and in one fluid motion launched it flying end over end into the throat of the man. He fell grasping at the blade in his jugular and began to fall dead before he hit the ground.

He had used his only weapon on him turning to his fists and engaged another goon. He began landing fists the mans chest and blocking and taking hits as well. Just as he charged up to put a boot in the mans chest the figure of the stranger behind him flew over his head into sight dropping like a bird of prey onto the helpless goon bringing his baton onto the clowns head crushing and caving it in gray matter sent a scatter over the sidewalks cold pavement. All of them seemed to be gone. He looked around just to make sure of his accusation and dropped his guard adrenaline ebbing away and began exhaling and inhaling deeply to regain his breath and his composition.

"lad what are you a one man army?" he said stunned. He didn't reply

that was seriously one of the most amazing performances of combat Ive ever seen! Plus you saved my ass what can I do to repay you?" He rasped while walking to retrieve the bayonet from the dead mans jugular and returning it to its sheath.

He looked interested and h began to list things he could trade.

"Well I have this bayonet a jacket, a few changes of clothing, ammo, beanie, and..." he stopped " That rifle." he finished

Sheridan noticed his look of inquisition.

"Look its a long story if you come meet me about fifteen minutes from now im going to find my lass and let her know im alright, I'll treat you to a couple rounds of drinks and explain" he stated. "What do you say lad?" he finished.

Asher Blackthorne

After stowing his baton and retrieving the Remington, Asher joined the other guy in the midst of the bodies. The blood was beginning to pool in the ruts made by hundreds of feet and other causes, where the dirt was beginning to loosen and form bloody mud.


"lad what are you a one man army?" The stranger asked, incredulously.

Asher looked at him with surprise, "Me? No, I'm just a courier. Learning to fight is the only way to survive in the wasteland. Besides, no matter where you go, street gangs are always the same. Go for the leader and kick the shit out of him until the rest run off. Oh, and you mentioned something about a girl? Buddy, I'm usually not this talkative, but I'll tell you this. New Denver is overflowing with small-time criminals and street gangs. If you left her alone and she's better looking than a gorilla crossed with an uglier gorilla, she's probably in trouble right now. Depending on the degree of danger, I might be able to help you there."

He extends his hand for the other man to shake it. "I'm Asher. Asher Blackthorne. You lead, I'll follow."

"You're probably right lad and the names Don Sheridan pleasure to meet you." he replied taking grip of the outreached arm. "Here's a picture of her." he held out a photo

Sheridan hands Asher a worn Polaroid on it the image of a beautiful woman with jet black hair in a ponytail and a soft face with rounded studious little glasses.

"What do you think? Would she be in trouble." he asked

"We better go." Sheridan said with a sudden sense of worry in his voice

Sheridan ran off to the bar Sarah had ran into and just as he dreaded she was in trouble. A couple fat slobs had her against a wall tormenting her. He signaled to Asher to follow him over to the bums making a hand gesture resembling repeated beating of a head.

"Im going to need my rifle" Sheridan said.

"So little lady how bout we's get outta here and find somewhere private." one of them slurred trying to cop a feel of her breast.

"Fuck off!" she yelled and delivered a swift kick to his crotch leaving him in a heap on the floor whimpering.

"That wasn't an option sugatits" one of the drunks said while he moving and slammed her against the wall. "We's gonna have some fun with ya's now" he hissed into her ear while reaching for her belt buckle and undoing the buttons of her shirt.

Sheridan saw this and moved in immediately with rage in his heart.

"Oi you ought not do that lad unless you wish to have your heed caved in." he said loading a fresh compliment of 4 shots into the magazine and popping the bolt to load it.

"Sheridan help me HELP ME!" Sarah yelled.

"Come on dumb ass we can finish up with her later. Get up we's gots us a foreign prick and his little friend to teach a lesson to's." He said

Sheridan looked at Asher and have him a stern look

"Lets fuck'em up mate." He said

[OOC: I'll let you handle the fight sequence I can write one but you seem to have a better hold on writing fight scenes. Also feel free to talk to Sarah and comment on her if you'd like.]

Asher Blackthorne

Asher takes the picture, glances at it, hands it back, but doesn't pay any real attention. Right on buddy, like I really care that much about your squeeze.

Formalities over, Asher followed Sheridan through the streets, hoping the big guy actually knew where he was going.

Really? She goes into a dive called The Serving Wench? Brilliant idea.

Asher watched the rest of the scene unfold. He didn't even consider touching any of his weapons; if there were Lawbringers or police in here, he could be facing a sentence.

"Sheridan, whatever you do, don't shoot. I'm telling you, don't fucking shoot!" Asher hurriedly interjected. "Just put the gun up. You take care of them, I'll watch your back. You can do that, right?"

Asher instead observes the inside of the bar. No shadowed corners, strange for an establishment like this. There was a runway with numerous dancing poles, but this early in the afternoon, no one was occupying them and the dim lights were at least turned on. The clientele was to a tee seasoned older men, all of them with beards or stubble. The bartender, a fat, greasy looking man, was openly sneering at the attempted rape. No sign of any Lawbringers.

By the time he turned around, Sheridan had already finished up with the drunks and was pulling some lovey-dovey bullshit on his girl.

"Hey, you two, if you want to do the do anywhere aside from a stinking jail cell, I'd advise you follow me. The Lawbringers are gonna be all over this area any moment now, and you don't want to find out what happens when Lawbringers find violence that wasn't done by them. It's not self-defense when they're involved. Actually, we had better part ways here. I've got to get back to my motel."

Asher Blackthorne was no new hand at staying alive on the city streets. He had done it since he was a kid; he knew how to walk the walk, talk the talk, and when to do all those things. And, most importantly, he knew when to keep his head down. This was one of those times -- New Denver was famous for its unofficial police force: the Lawbringers. While New Denver actually had a police force, they were underpaid, unskilled layabouts who made almost three times as much in bribes as they earned for their salaries. They were paid off to overlook almost all the complaints from upstanding citizens by the gangs, who truly owned the streets. Then, the Lawbringers came along; originally a group of vigilante killers who unified from scattered cells into one organization, they formed something of a coup and installed themselves as the defacto police force of New Denver. However, the corruption spread through all levels, and soon the Lawbringers became drunk in their own power; they became too obsessed with "justice" and meted it out equally to all, even if the opposing party was guilty or not. Soon they became feared, but by then they had amassed so much money and weaponry that no one even thought of challenging them. If all the gangs in New Denver unified, they would stand a chance of defeating the Lawbringers, however, that will never happen. Luckily for the gangs, the Lawbringers are a splintered faction as well; the purists and the psychos both wear Lawbringer coats. Needless to say, to some the Lawbringers were a blessing. When they found nests of gangs that weren't paying them off, they disposed of them, even if it involved setting the entire district on fire.

Asher made his quiet way through the crowds, careful to keep his eyes down, hands in his pockets, and stay below notice just like everyone else on the street. As he walked towards his motel, located a few miles from his current location, he began to see more and more brown duster-clad, hard-as-nails men slinging shotguns, revolvers, and even assault rifles over their shoulders. The Lawbringers resembled nothing more than throwbacks to the sheriffs of the Wild West; albeit loaded with AK-47s and bullet-proof vests under their cowboy boots, duster coats, and cowboy hats. They all seemed to be converging like sharks to the taste of blood on the area where the Freakshow members had met their unfortunate ends.

As he turned the last corner, the motel "Lucky Seven" came into view. Its dusty facade lit up by battered neon lights belied a comfortable, clean, and affordable place. It was one of those hidden gems that someone meticulously takes care of, yet is hidden away in the wastes. Not unlike a ruby in a pile of dog shit, Asher reminisced, cynically.

He removed his hands from the pockets of his rocker jacket and opened the door to the lobby, feeling the cool air from the ceiling fan brush over his face. I need a shave.

Asher waved to the owner, who sat behind the counter with his reading glasses on as he inspected his ledgers. The man, in a threadbare yet clean and stylish sweatervest nodded a greeting as well. Asher, remembering his manners, trudged back to the door and tapped the dust, dirt, and grit off of his boots into a small tray, then retired to his room on the second floor. The ancient elevator, smelling somewhat musty, still worked. Every time he came here, Asher always wondered when the old contraption would break down. But that day was not today, and the door opened with a distant ting of a bell. He flung open the door to his room, doffed his pack, pulled off his jacket and shirts, kicked off his boots, and laid down on the coverlet of the single bed. After a few minutes, he got up, drew the curtains shut, removed his work pants, and slipped under the covers.

Sleep came upon him like a surge of waves, and before he knew it, he was sinking deeper...

"Think you could be a bit more respectf-" Sheridan cut off Sarah

"Calm yourself lass that guy saved my ass and pretty much made sure I was able to come back to you." Sheridan explain "His names Asher."

"Oh well thank you." She half said face turning red.

Sheridan hears what Asher tells him knowing they needed to slip out of their and turns and gives Asher a final wave and tells him thanks once more and that he will be in touch bolting out the back of the bar.

"Sarah are you alright?" he asked.

"Yea I would have been If you wouldn't have run off!" She said turning to face him

"Hey im sorry I could-" She placed a finger over his lips.

"Shut it for now lets just try to find somewhere to stay." She said.

"Fine" He said flatly.

Sheridan spent an hour asking around for the best motel to stay in someone said "Hey try the Lamplight Tavern." It was sub par "There's this place over town real good and clean too it called The Cell. Don't let the name throw you off best place in town no doubt."

Sure enough it was nice enough to stay in on the way home he passed by Asher again only wanting to tell him he would be leaving town shortly.

"Im heading to New New Orleans tomorrow morning. You can get me on my CB radio if you need me. My frequency is 74.3" He stated.

He traded a last hand shake and parted again.

About 10 minutes later they were at The Cell and turned in for the night.

"Long arse day lass..." He breathed

"Yea". She replied

"Well tomorrow we are gonna head to New New Orleans see what their is to offer." He thought.

He flopped down onto the bed beside Sarah thinking back on the day the acquaintance he made. (he never called anyone a friend or ally unless he really knew them. It was how you survived in the wastes. Trust few kill many.) and the brawl. He looked at the ceiling and closed his eyes

"What a way to live." He thought as the heavy waved of black came over him as he gave into fatigue and fell into blissful and relaxing sleep.