About 40k words so far; with everything else going on in life I consider that just fine as far as word generation goes. Looking to add another 20-30k this summer.
What I Write
Loic was pondering the things that he and Estienne had spoken of; the order was a calling as much as a home, now that his family was gone. It troubled him that there could be some outside force bent on its harm. He thought about the island. How could it be stormed? How could they get in the gate? Who the hell would want to?
A lone, silent figure, he sat in his machine shop, replacing the brass bushings around the throttle shaft of the launch’s carburetor. The motor was old but reliable; old enough that the t-shaft was loose and had started letting air in. He shifted position, trying to get more sunlight on the workbench, when he realized the light wasn’t blocked by a shifting sun, but by a couple of silent guests. As he squinted over, the figures of Estienne and Padraig stepped in to his domain.
“Loic,” said Estienne. “We have an armaments issue. Our acolyte here has no familiarity with ranged weapons, and no arm to use.”
“Huh… Never? Bow? Crossbow? Hunting rifle? Blowgun? Slingshot?”
Padraig shrugged, embarrassed, and shook his head.
“Not even a slingshot?”
“I grew up in the city. Everything was so close together that a rock was all you needed for a ranged weapon.”
Loic slapped his knees and stood up. “Then I’m going to keep it simple. Shotgun.”
“Perfect for you. We figure out a way to get wafers in there, and bim! Because you don’t need much penetration to do the damage. It’s like vinegar and baking soda. In fact, the further the distance, the wider the spread; nothing better than a ton of superficial flesh wounds.”
“Eucharist as buckshot… I don’t think I can say enough Hail Marys to cleanse my head of that thought. Can’t we just bless the bullets or pellets or whatever?”
The two men ignored Padraig’s feeling of sacrilege.
“Break-action? Pump-action?” asked Estienne.
“Yeah, no way he can walk the streets of a European city with a semi-automatic. Even so he’ll need a ton of licenses. The best would be to acquire an antique and add it to our collection.”
“But then he’ll need a license for that-“
“You have one for your sword,” shrugged Loic. “He’ll just have to get one as well.” He crossed his arms and stared blankly towards his workbench. “Forget the bolt-action… short barrel, riot gun. Easy to conceal…” he snapped his fingers. “The Benelli. M-3. Pump, not semi-automatic. Something like that, but old enough to classify as a museum piece… I think there were some old Brownings…”
“Ge’ez makes more sense to me than this does,” murmured Padraig.
“Ahhhh, ok.” Loic’s turbulent, brainstorming phase ended with a conspiratorial grin. “A lupara. Mediterranean, small, concealable, no choke, wide spread. Perfect. The fact that it’s associated with the settling of vendettas in the mafia is just icing on the cake.” He grinned a huge grin, then stopped.
“But it’ll be loud. Crazy loud…”
“It’s a first step. He’ll mostly be on point for the moment anyway–won’t even use it. And if it comes to the point where he has to, maybe it’s just as well to wake up the neighborhood.”
Loic gestured to the side with his left hand. “Then it’s done.”
Estienne grunted. “You have a lupara on hand?”
Loic rolled his eyes slightly. “Let’s just say that I know a guy who knows a guy who…”
“Loic… fine. What about the ammo?”
Loic was reaching for the rotary phone on the wall. “Come back tomorrow. Early. I have a couple of ideas. And this guy I know, he knows another guy…”
Estienne snorted, and ushered Padraig out.
“Just keep telling yourself he’s doing the Lord’s work, okay?”
|What I Write||
Working on a large slipstream / fantasy world with a (non-CW) co-writer.
Interzone, M-brane “2020 Visions”, Tumbarumba, West Pier Gazette, EscapePod
My Write-a-thon Goals
Crank out another 20-30k words. Just turning the gears, getting the apocryphal shitty first draft complete.
Whatever is possible!