[67 / 2 / 23]
"Come on ladies, we need this truck in New Harbour by the 17th! The boss'll be spittin' shit if it's late!"
Like you didn't know. Like you didn't have the winter wind ripping at your face and the snow crunching under your shoes as you pulled the dead truck along the frozen breadth (or was it width? your brother would know) of the Haag River. Like he wasn't sitting in the cab of the truck, warmer than the rest of you, keeping time on a pocket watch urging you on with threats and reminders, a charioteer driving his human horses, or considering the weather a Yankee Eskimo barking at his human sled dogs.
"Mush," one of your pals muttered behind you.
Damn if you knew where he found the energy to joke.
You were being paid good money to get this shipment of booze, Canadian whiskey mostly, down to New Harbour before the clock struck midnight to ring in the new year. New Harbour with a 'u', spelled the English way. You don't know why. Wasn't your problem. Your only problem right now was the ice, the wind, and the heavy fucking truck that had broke down half way across the river and now needed hauling across the ice.
It was worth it though. You were dragging a fortune behind you. Not for no 'real' new year, no. They were ringing in a new year all the same. The start of something that was going to make you rich.
God bless the uptight, under fucked school marms of America and their limp dicked husbands scared of a little liqour. God bless Andrew Volstead and the Republican Party. God bless Marion Davies and Buster Keaton. You tighten your grip on the rope cutting into your palms, hiked it higher on your shoulder and continued your snow crunching stoic march over the frozen river.
The ice under your feet made deep sounds, putting in you a powerful need to piss. You weren't scared of much. You still didn't like the way the ice groaned.
"Double time ladies!" the jerk in the cab shouted, "Goddamn if you aren't the most useless band of-
>Micks
>Wops
>Kikes
>Niggers
I ever met!"
-
(pick our protagonist's ethnicity, which will determine his gang affiliation)
Like you didn't know. Like you didn't have the winter wind ripping at your face and the snow crunching under your shoes as you pulled the dead truck along the frozen breadth (or was it width? your brother would know) of the Haag River. Like he wasn't sitting in the cab of the truck, warmer than the rest of you, keeping time on a pocket watch urging you on with threats and reminders, a charioteer driving his human horses, or considering the weather a Yankee Eskimo barking at his human sled dogs.
"Mush," one of your pals muttered behind you.
Damn if you knew where he found the energy to joke.
You were being paid good money to get this shipment of booze, Canadian whiskey mostly, down to New Harbour before the clock struck midnight to ring in the new year. New Harbour with a 'u', spelled the English way. You don't know why. Wasn't your problem. Your only problem right now was the ice, the wind, and the heavy fucking truck that had broke down half way across the river and now needed hauling across the ice.
It was worth it though. You were dragging a fortune behind you. Not for no 'real' new year, no. They were ringing in a new year all the same. The start of something that was going to make you rich.
God bless the uptight, under fucked school marms of America and their limp dicked husbands scared of a little liqour. God bless Andrew Volstead and the Republican Party. God bless Marion Davies and Buster Keaton. You tighten your grip on the rope cutting into your palms, hiked it higher on your shoulder and continued your snow crunching stoic march over the frozen river.
The ice under your feet made deep sounds, putting in you a powerful need to piss. You weren't scared of much. You still didn't like the way the ice groaned.
"Double time ladies!" the jerk in the cab shouted, "Goddamn if you aren't the most useless band of-
>Micks
>Wops
>Kikes
>Niggers
I ever met!"
-
(pick our protagonist's ethnicity, which will determine his gang affiliation)
