<br/><hr/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/4/45/Bigjake.png)(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/62/Scooter2.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Big Jake, Scooter<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Sioux Union<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 20th<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>After Midnight<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Golden Mare<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Nell Robinson, CLOSED<br/><hr/><br/>Big Jake gave a scowl as they slipped down the Tracks, sinking into bony shoulders as they crisscrossed from the modest homes and reasonable shops to the brightly lit estates that were west of the Tracks.  Miss Greene’s Room - the best damn whore house in the city - was located just west  the Tracks.  While there were upturned noses, the city’s wealthy elite had a somewhat practical notion regarding Miss Greene’s Room - better to have an amorous husband struggling back from relative safety, than a drunken man with a well-ridden cock and a full wallet going anywhere too near the den of danger that was Soddom.  A philanderer was a philanderer, after all.<br/><br/>“You remember the plan, Scooter?”  Big Jake’s eyes flashed up to the mountain of a man trying to creep along with him.<br/><br/>“I think so,” said Scooter.  “I don’t like the plan, though.”<br/><br/>Jake’s teeth grit.  “No one likes the plan, Scooter, but it’s still the plan.”  He didn’t feel quite right about it, either.  Sure, he knew the wealthy and the privileged in the city ran things, and he didn’t mind kissing a little ass and sharpening his knife to get a piece of the pie - but then there were things like this.  Truly, monumentally fucked up things like this.  He’d never liked Coleman - but for a moment he wished that Coleman would rise up out of his grave and pop Bilton square in the brainpan for the shit that was happening tonight.<br/><br/>“Alright.  You stay out here.  Keep a lookout.  Make a… bird noise or something if someone comes along.”<br/><br/>“What kind of bird?”<br/><br/>Big Jake stopped and stared at his counterpoint.<br/><br/>“You got a<em>range</em>of fucking bird noises?  You some kinda bird expert?”<br/><br/>Scooter stared at him.  “Like… a chicken?”<br/><br/>Big Jake closed his eyes, and rubbed his temple.  “Sure.  Fine.  Like a chicken.”  There was a pause, and his brow knit.  “It’s the middle of the fucking night, ain’t no chickens up.  And don’t go make a sound like a goddam rooster, either.  Can you do an owl?”<br/><br/>Scooter pursed his lips.  “Whoo-hoo, whoo hoo!”<br/><br/>Jake closed his eyes.  “Jesus.   I know you don’t think much of me.  But  I swear, I’ll donate fifty goddam dollar to the church if you make sure no one comes along.”<br/><br/>He paused outside the Golden Mare, looking at the upstairs room and the single window visible from the outside.  “Gimme a boost.”<br/><br/>The lanky enforcer weighed all of a hundred and thirty pounds, and in no time, Scooter had him reaching the second floor window in the wee hours of the night.  He pulled it open quietly, then pulled himself up and over the ledge.  He kept a low profile, slinking slowly through the hotel room to the redhead slumbering upon the bed.<br/><br/><em>Damn shame.</em><br/><br/>Then he slipped the burlap bag over her head, and tightened the rope drawstrings.  He levelled his gun at the side of her head.<br/><br/>“You scream, you die, whore.” His words were a whispered promise, reinforced by the cocking of a hammer.