Re: Saturday, 14 April, 2001. 2000-0000
2300 Hour Local
They noted on the way to the door that the half-empty room had filled to at lease 30-40 men, from "Gynecology Row" to the dimly-glimpsed rear tables and booths. The men were wearing a mix of US BDUs and Canadian combats, as well as more civilian street wear from dusters and cowboy hats to rain coats, leather jackets and baseball caps.
At least a couple dozen women, some in their teens, one or two in their early teens, were present as well. Some circulated among the tables carrying drinks, others sat with the men, a couple naked ones doing lewd lap-dances, grinding down in a way that barely qualified as erotic. The dancer on stage was now in the nude while she performed the traditional pole-dance, and most of the women on the floor didn't have much more on. This really all that much different from before the war, fully-nude erotic dancing being legal in Canada (lap-dancing excepted).
What wasn't like before the war was the strong smell of pot, mixed with cigarette and cigar smoke.
They entered the narrow hallway, then climbed some stairs up to the top. They passed through an armoured door with eyeport and entered an office.
Bear sat in the plush leather chair. Several monitors showed angles from inside and outside the building. The outside monitors covered the immediate front and back alley of the club building. Inside showed glimpses of the bar, lobby, stage, backstage, and a garage.
"Drink? Coffee? Blow? Joint?" He motioned to a well-stocked wet bar. His beefy bodyguards made themselves comfortable, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
After they helped themselves, he asked them how they were doing, and where they were living.
Once they repeated the cover stories they were given, he made his pitch. If they had made a mistake, it didn't seem to register.
"Boys, there's a lot of chaos and anarchy here. The so-called authorities abandoned the city. We moved in, and we got a good thing going here. Now, I don't mind a little anarchy, but business is business. We need good guys, guys who can handle themselves. We got gang-bangers, deserters, small-time bozos, all moving in, claiming territory. They need to learn respect, and we got to teach it to them. The cops and the government, it'll take years for them to get organised, and when they do they'll be looking for people to contract out different services. Transportation, construction, utilities. Fire. Police. Security."
He looked at them. "Sure, we got a lot of hell-raisers. Brawlers. Long-hairs like me, born to ride, ones the cops know to hassle. But we're looking to upgrade our image, and we're taking people in who look more clean-cut, ex-military guys like you. Guys that won't raise suspicions, don't have records. We already got a bunch together, got military-grade firepower. Guys who can pass as security contractors, who already got the training and experience."
"When the hiring starts, these people will be the first in line, getting in on the ground floor. We're working on building relationships with politicians and other community leaders, working it from the top down."
"Once it all comes together we'll have this city by the balls."
"Guys like you can get in while the getting is good. Are you interested? We're businessmen, you'll be fuckin' rich, believe me. Well paid, anything you want. Booze, drugs, guns, girls, cars, property..."
This message was last edited by the GM at 16:51, Tue 23 Dec 2008.