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[Abandoned] [Episode] Ya don't gotta stand up ta shoot.

Damned was the man who fucked with a frenzied, crippled woman. That nutty chick! She's fuckin' amazin'! Butch was forced to swallow his thrill, lest a shit-eating grin warped his lips and ruined the crazy lady's improvised stage act. It had been a while since he'd run into a brat as wild as himself.

A minute or two ago...

One might have mistaken Butch to be cross-eyed or the like by how his glances bounced between the suited pair and the costumed attendant. Upon her taunt at the "hideous" patrons, he turned his attention to Miss Grump-on-Gears with an indolent twist in his seat.

He was tempted to deride her comment with a "Does that include yer own ugly mug too?" It would've been a lie. Before he loosened his tongue, he caught a glimpse of that distorted smirk on her lips. The kind of smirk that would prompt repulsion from most. The kind of smirk that sent chills down Butch's spine in waves - the good kind of chills, if there ever was such a thing. He was smitten for a brief moment before her sobering frown brought him back to reality.

The haughty challenge placed upon his intelligence by Wheelie had little effect on him. He was never disillusioned about his "act-first-think-way-too-fucking-late" philosophy. Countless avoidable violent incidents in the past were sparked by his tactlessness and his forthright mannerisms. Another one of these incidents was about to happen, but this time, he could not be held responsible.

Butch had a habit of fiddling with the hammers of his pistols when idling. This helpful practice aided his reaction to what hit the rest of the folk in the building like a goddamned train. His tumble backwards upon the pale woman's rampage turned into a comical roll. Yet he managed to turn his fumble into a speedy (though clumsy) draw.

Within the second, his guns were out and ready to aim at...

Right fucking now...

The ghostly girl had gone feral. Butch hadn't a clue what her plan was, but he played along as best he could. "Yer fuckin' dead,  ya cunt! I told ya Johne Tracy got lifted by some cocksucking loser." A wayward peek at the round mobster had their eyes meet, and that's when Butch realised this insane plan could very well prompt action from their target.

A few discreet words were traded between the human bowling ball and his bowling pin of a lackey amid the chaos arbitrated by the raven-haired furiosa. There was little opportunity for Butch to stage another scene in this melodrama (lucky for him, considering his utter lack of talent in theatrical arts).

A single twitch from the mobster is all it took for the young gunslinger to shout out "Hit the dirt!" Butch kicked their dining table onto its side, flinging his lukewarm black coffee at the wild-eyed woman and freeing Yoony-boy in the process. If only he could've predicted his error.

Had Yoon remained in the clutches of his faux-kidnapper, he might have been omitted from the ensuing volley. The mafioso went out of his way to avoid shooting at the author of this madness, aiming simply at Butch and the dancing (more like fumbling to make a getaway) kid.

The unexpected machinegun fire encouraged the majority of the guests not targeted by the mobster to flee. When the gunfire lulled, Butch—who had taken cover behind the sturdy table and had luckily remained unharmed—glanced side-to-side in search for Yoon. He located him only by a weak whimper.

The kid had hidden behind the high swinging doors of the kitchen. It took a few quiet seconds for Butch to comprehend how the boy had survived after being inadvertently placed in the line of fire. Streams of crimson trailed down the fair visage of the one and only waitress of Les Malfaiteurs. She sat flat beside Yoon, her chest rising and falling unevenly from short breaths. The young lad nearly chewed through his nails hovering over the heroic injured lady.

Butch's brows collapsed outwards into an expression spawned from guilt and rage. True to his character, he wasted no time thinking. While firing a few wide shots at the son-of-a-bitch who shot Sweet, he darted towards the whimpering pair. Without a word, he ducked next to Sweet and hoisted her over his shoulder. The poor girl offered no protest.

The boy in his care required no bidding to follow. They rushed to the backdoor, keeping their backs against the wall as near as they could. The two delinquents and the innocent victim of their shenanigans poured out into the rear garden where the whale of a chef and the gaunt-as-a-rail owner cowered behind a shed. Butch didn't blame them one bit for hiding from danger.

Upon seeing the copious amounts of blood and the pale and sweaty face of her daughter, mother whale cried a song of the sea and came swimming to her spawn. If circumstances weren't so grave (what with his latest target of affection being shot and all) he might have made a ruckus laughing at the chef's attempt at a dash. He almost regretted not witnessing her escape from the shooting. But, circumstances were indeed grave. He couldn't fault the mother for any of her desperate measures to ensure the security of her child.

"Yer girl is a hero. She saved this little brat from getting shot ta shit." He poked the quailing boy with the mouth of his right-handed pistol, Fly, with one eye on the back door and another at the corner of the restaurant; caution against their assailants following after them.

He had not failed to notice how the blue-and-white blob had skipped shooting at the wheelchaired woman. He hoped that the man sought to use her in some way which might allow her to investigate the disappearing of the troublesome "Johne Tracy". Regardless of that development, he knew Yoon and himself had to make like a tree and leave.

The curly-moustached restaurant manager inched closer with wary steps. "You dastardly delinquents! How dare you cause so much trouble?! You've driven away all of my customers!"

Butch's grey-green pupils dilated in a deranged fury and his lips transmuted into a grimace. He marched towards the squirrelly business-owner with heavy steps and, with no hesitation, served the coward a knuckle-sandwich free-of-charge. The owner's nose crunched and collapsed like paper under the hammer that was Butch's fist. All it took was a single punch to knock the scrawny fellow into the grass.

The grimace had not left the young gunslinger when he raged. "Ya spineless cuck! Yer sweet-as-syrup daughter's bleedin' over here and yer more worried about yer shady-ass business? It ain't our fault ya pay yer dues ta scum like that gangster. Go get a fuckin' doctor right now, ya piece of shit!" It took another furious "NOW!" for the piece of shit to be moved to action.

Butch returned to the wailing mother's side and kneeled. "I'm real sorry this happened, misses. I ain't got any moneh, but, I'll come back later and help y'all fix the place up." He delivered the apology with his lips clear in Sweet's view and then turned to Yoon. "Let's get the fuck outta here before we bring more misery."

With a worried frown, the bounty hunter took the leave of Sweet and her mother whale, tugging Yoon along by his hair.

The soles of their boots clip-clopped in a narrow cobblestone alley as they raced away from the scene. He peered up at his elder with tears streaking down his cheeks. "Sweet... S-she.. she saved me."

Butch's gaze remained fixed forward. "I know, ya idiot. She's a fool for throwin' herself in the way like that to save yer sorry ass. A fool, but a kind one."

The only sensible course of action for them was to find a place to lie low. The worst had yet to come.

TRACKERS:

Butch colour: #fcc16a
Friendly NPC colour: #82ff82