!!0ZviLFh59My 01/27/12(Fri)00:33 No.17691616|
File1327642432.jpg-(165 KB, 577x814, 1323071260136.jpg)
After depositing the bag of sunglasses in your aircraft, you retrieve the big, heavy canvas sack you obtained just for this trip. If you got as much as you want you'd need a dolly, but you think you'll be okay for a few more Martian attacks, at least.
"How are we getting into here?" Perrine asks you, looking at the armory. It's well-guarded, with a man behind a counter watching the only exit, and no convenient windows in the side of the building. Well, it's a Quonset hut, to be precise.
"Just walk in," you reply, and you do just that. "Hey! Hey, Mel!"
Mel looks up from his day-old newspaper, one of the much-hated Chesterfields dangling from his lips. He's the only man you've ever met who doesn't loathe them. "Huh? Dafuq is dat?" Mel is allegedly British, but he doesn't sound like it. He sounds like an angry lizard given a voice by a perverse God.
"It's a bag, Mel."
"Noshit," he snarlhisses. "Whatchawant?"
"Just .45 ACP. Reload my sidearm."
Mel eyes the huge bag. "Yeahright."
"I'm being re-based."
Mel considers this. "Newcotoldcot?"
"One of the new ones," you say. "All yours."
Mel shrugs. "Fuckkin MP's don'tpracticeanyway. Won'tmissit."
"Hokay," you agree, walk into the caged-in area behind Mel, and walk out with two Thompson SMGs, a dozen magazines, and as much boxed .45 ACP as your weary arms can lift. You stride past Mel, who's already returned to his paper, without a problem.
"How did you do that?" Perrine asks you, staring at the bulging bag.
"Bribes and lies."
You're walking back to your plane when Perrine yanks the bag off your shoulder, spins you around, locks her arms around you and presses her lips to yours in about one-point-four seconds.