The swamp reeked of bitter peat, fertility lost long ago. Skeletal trees etched across the canyon like lightning bolts. It was once a valley of green, nestled between two rocky slopes. Now it was grey muck, given color only by flashlights and torches.
Some of the more self-conscious highwaymen had rolled up their jeans to prevent the mud from staining their only good clothes. They were all sorts of men, and some were women, and they came in every shape possible. Some were dreadfully short, which made it so much easier to dodge bullets. Others were tall and lean and fast as one of their cars. Others still were stocky and well-muscled. This described their leader, Snake, who did not at all look like a snake.
He rose a head taller than most of his followers, shaved head shining in the pale moonlight. His muscles rippled as he walked, sweat dripping down and into the muck. His jaw was set and rigid, shaved as meticulously as his head. He did not wear a shirt despite the cold, and his patchwork armor provided all the protection he needed. License plates and bands of rusted metal, hammered into new shapes and nailed to leather straps. This was the salvaged armor of a highwayman, and they all wore it.
Snake was a warlord. This means that the party he led, a good dozen highwaymen all armed with countless weapons, was a war party. War parties did not often enter this canyon for fear of leaving their vehicles behind. A group of men stayed back to guard them, but Snake doubted anyone would threaten his carmada. The other wastrels knew better.
They came upon it, through the bog and the mist and the twisted trees. The entrance to the cave. It was gaping and wide, like so many women that Snake had left. "Lower your weapons," Snake told his men. That was the way of things. He spoke, others obeyed. In another gang, they might have doubted their leader. They may have even dared to complain about leaving the cars behind, even though cars cannot traverse swampland. They did not.
A group of highwaywoman, for they were only women in this canyon, emerged from the cave and aimed their weapons at Snake. He did not lift his hands in surrender, nor did he open fire with his AR-15, butt duct-taped together.
The women wore that same sort of armor, but without the rust. Rust was the price one paid for living in the wasteland and not in some dingy cave. These women were of a wealthier sort than other highwaymen and did not have to pillage ruins and farms of the desert to survive. They were as diverse as Snake's own gang, each one a mix of Latina and Chinese and even Russian, if rumors were to be believed. He owned a few similar women back at his palace and had known them well.
"What's your business with the Canyon Crazies?" asked one woman with raven-black hair. They all had raven-black hair, so perhaps that was not her most distinguishing feature, but it was the one Snake noticed.
"Snake of Overdog Enterprises, here to barter."
"This is not how bartering works."
She was right. The proper procedure was to send a single man to negotiate a time and place for an auction. But Snake was a proud man and rules did not apply to him. Such was the mentality of the warlord. "Things change. I come bearing gifts."
The Overdogs were discontent to carry such heavy sacks through the swamp. It was another thing that members of a lesser gang would have complained about. Still, they carried their luggage forward and dropped them at the feet of the Canyon Crazies, who seemed disinterested and offended. Then the bags spilled open.
Brick after brick of highly condensed cocaine spilled out, sealed in plastic wrap. The white powder shined in the moonlight and the Crazies looked down in wonder. Snake just smiled as they counted the bags and the bricks within. Some of his highwaymen licked their lips, but knew that there was more waiting back at the carmada. Until then, they would be bug-eyed and agitated.
"You took out the Chef," the woman responded. She dug a knife into the brick and placed her nose against the powder. It was within her rights to try a sample, as every highwayman knew. "Oh shit. This is some good shit." Her sisters knew that they would not be given a taste until the deal went down, but their mouths salivated all the same.
"I bought out the Chef, actually. Turns out a few slaves were all it took to triple his supply. And all I had to do was take out a few of his enemies." Oh, that was a fun week. Countless corpses, most of them missing heads or other important limbs. Almost all of them were dealers or chefs themselves, but they didn't have that special flare that made Chef's work so valuable. "Plus his old gang is dead in a ditch." And not by accident. "So, he needed a new guardian angel. And I'm an angel."
"What do you want?" the woman asked. Her disgust had faded and her eyes widened, and she couldn't help but look at the warlord from head to toe, suddenly finding herself as wet as the mud that squelched around her boots. Perhaps she would meet him between the sheets later on, time permitting. Perhaps she would make some foolish error and earn the wrath of her superiors, putting her in chains like the rest of the chattel they sold.
"Everything," Snake said. He had waited so long to offer that answer. It was not particularly satisfying. "But there are some small things that your bosses have helped me with before. Bring me to Garcia so we might discuss the details." He had rehearsed this exact conversation in his head for hours before. It sounded professional, and Snake was nothing if not professional.
"Follow me," said the woman, offering a devious smile and a wink. The other women silently scurried back into the cave, metal armor clanging as they walked.
They were about to enter the mouth of the cave, deep, dark and intimidating as any virile woman, when one of the Overdogs had something to say.
