No longer even bothering to hide his sidearm from view, Eddie grimaces slightly, appearing momentarily lost in thought as he scratches his head with the suppressor.
Dungeon Monkey wrote:
“Time to go man. I don’t want to be around some trigger-happy crackers with M-18s”
At Chex's comment, however, Eddie appears to have made up his mind about... whatever he was thinking about.
"You know, you make an interesting case. Looks like it's your lucky day."
As the three chuckleheads on the far side of the food court make a break for the stairs to the parking garage, Eddie points to the stairs up to the ground level.
"Fine, let's go find your people and take care of business. Time to bounce."
He motions toward the stairs with his free hand.
"After you, bud."
Exit stage left, possibly to return in the next act...
Upon seeing the crazed men and women banging on the doors, Eddie rolls his eyes, turning to his "friend."
"Hooo boy... wish I had some of whatever bath salts these weirdos are on. Doesn't shock me that these weekend warriors can't handle the pressure. Bet they've never even been to Florida."
Dungeon Monkey wrote:
“ALPHA BASE THIS IS CHECKPOINT CHARLIE! WE HAVE CONTACT WITH INFECTED! NEED BACKUP OVER!!!”
At this, however, Eddie gets a dangerous, serious look in his eyes.
"Backup, eh? That's not good."
Eddie begins backing up, his hand moving toward the SIG Sauer tucked into the back of his waistband.
"Looks like the party's gonna be over real soon, partner. Forget the dope-sniffers, any minute now, the boys in blue are gonna show up. Or worse, mall cops. No sense of humor at all."
He begins to make his way back to the table to retrieve his bug-out bag, moving quickly but doing his level best not to draw any attention from either the National Guardsmen or the crazed civilians. Very discreetly, and with practiced skill, he removes a suppressor from the pocket of his khakis and screws it onto the muzzle of his pistol, making sure to keep both as much out of sight as possible.
Earlier, when Eddie was casing the place, how many exits did he see?
As the patrons eat their meals they suddenly hear yelling down the hallway where the guards were stationed. It’s out of direct line of sight, but the voices are loud and angry
DM:
Eddie pointedly ignores the yelling down the hall, at least as much as he can, raising his own voice as much as he can without arousing suspicion.
"...So anyway, got the memo about the game. Anything else you've got going on the side? Anything? I've got about a half-dozen itchy itches that are in desperate need of a scratchy-scratch, and emptying the pockets of a bunch of brain-dead high-rollers ain't even in the top ten. C'mon, bro, what do you say?"
Eddie's face suddenly splits into an insane ear-to-ear grin, like when Mike from Red Letter Media gets super drunk and forgets a joke halfway through telling it, or maybe like Heath Ledger in that one movie with the guy who dresses up like ...that bat guy. Whatever his name is.
"Remember, you owe me one. If it weren't for me... see that suit you're wearing? Let's just say that it would be less "Armani" and more "orange." With little numbers on the back. Chester, buddy..."
He leans back in his chair.
"You're killin' me, Smalls. Got any real work?"
After about thirty seconds, however, Eddie has had enough of the angry yahoos in the corridor. Suddenly prim and proper, he holds up a finger.
"Hold that thought, my good friend. Please excuse me one moment."
For everyone else...
After half a minute of commotion in the hallway, one of the two large men chatting at the back table (the slightly unhinged-looking one in the pink polo shirt, not the calm one in the sharp suit) stands up, pointing an accusing finger in the direction of the voices (who clearly can't see or hear him).
"Hey! Hey, you! Can't you see I'm trying to have a private conversation here? I'm on vacation, I got company, dude! Shut up, for cryin' out loud!"
He sits down, tugging at his collar and addressing the other man at the table in a quieter but clearly-audible tone.
"Kids these days, am I right? Can't get no respect."
"Oh, heck, buddy, Armani or no Armani, you're missin' out, I gotta tell you. These days, guys with little plastic ID cards pay guys like us big-time money to do jobs that back in the day they used to hand off to Joey Bagadonuts. Everyone's so paranoid, it's hilarious."
At the mention of the game, Eddie's attention begins to drift. He removes a Zippo lighter from his shirt pocket and begins idly flicking the cap back and forth.
"You know what they say about poker... it's like gettin' your bone honed-- if you don't have a good partner, you'd better have a good hand."
After a few seconds, Eddie turns what's left of his focus back to the conversation. He rolls his eyes and lets out an exaggerated sigh.
"OK, fine, 10k, whatever, got it. We both know I'm gonna win. And who knows, maybe it'll get interesting like that one time me and Disco Pete and me were playing blackjack with the vice president of Burundi back in '22, and... you know what, don't worry about it. Not important."
“Eddie Doyle you murderous Mick bastard, how the fnck are you? I haven’t heard a peep from you since they tossed your sorry ass out of the Green Berets. What kinda crap are you up to?”
Eddie give one of his patented s$+!-eating grins, folding his hands behind his head.
"Oh, you know, the usual. Makin' my own rules, blackjack and hookers, fat stacks and blow, the works."
He leans forward in his chair.
"Besides, looks like you've been doin' pretty OK yourself. Nice watch, by the way. Gettin' a little soft in the head, though. Last I remember it was you that got kicked out of the Green Berets. I was never dumb enough to join the Army. Us leathernecks have always been our own special breed of, well, you remember. Joint operations. Pew pew, and all that."
Eddie makes *finger guns* and mimes shooting an invisible enemy.
"Anyway, heard you might have a job for me. Must be gettin' soft in the middle too, if you need me. Good thing I'm the best of the best, else you'd be wicked screwed. And what's with the suit? No range of motion in those things. These days, the real pros wear Fred Perry."
He leans back again, casting a side-eye at the discount Kate Beckinsale across the food court.
"Seriously, though, I'm bored out of my skull here. One pencil-neck pencil-pusher gives me bad intel, and it's six weeks unpaid vacation. Come on, bro, I ditched the car, got my go bag with me and everything," he says, kicking the small backpack he's stashed under the table, "What'll it be?"
As he waits for his contact, Eddie leans back in his chair, drumming his hands idly on the table and keeping a watchful eye on all of the room's entrances and exits. To pass the time, he tries to envision how he'd go about killing each individual person in the food court.
"Let's see-- fatass in the corner; slap the Big Gulp right outta his hands, then double-tap to the double-chin. Lady with screaming toddler; use the little dickens to kick a field goal over the balcony, then snap the lady's neck while she's distracted. Old fart with the Grateful Dead shirt..."
Eddie stretches his arm out, then makes a pinching motion with thumb and forefinger.
