Warcry felt that old familiar tightness in his chest. A quick whiff from his inhaler put it at ease. It would embarrass his father if he used it in public, so he kept it locked away in the same drawer that held his booze.
That tightness was common and familiar and often led to painful choking, but this time it had something to do with that lovely slave-boy. And it wasn't just his chest. Chills ran up his spine and the faint hairs on his neck stood up and something turned inside his stomach, just at the thought of that filthy wastrel on his knees. He could not recall ever feeling something so pronounced that wasn't utterly painful and hateful. But he had read about this sort of feeling in those books that his tutors so loathed.
But there was no time to worry about such things. Once again, Snake had called for a banquet, and that required a certain amount of acting on the part of Warcry. He had to pretend that he lived up to his name, a name only a highwayman could wear with any pride.
There were banquets in the ancient texts that tutors had him read. Odysseus feasted with kings and goddesses. Somehow, those meals seemed far more civil than the barbaric debauchery of an Overdog banquet.
The hall used to be an office, and the oaken table was meant for conferences in which the former mayor of this village would meet with citizens. It was now the host of war-spoils. Beef and poultry and any assortment of vegetables and fruits, taken from the poor farms either run by slaves or forced to pay tribute, for fear of being enslaved. Food was scarce out in the wasteland, and those with guns had the ability to take it. Dozens of villages paid tribute to the Overdogs in exchange for protection from other gangs.
Maleager, a former tutor of Warcry's, explained that it was a feudal system. Kings and their knights had treated their peasants the same way. Knights would protect farmers, and farmers would give them all the food they could muster. So, when some pissant gang like the Bronze Bullets or the Angels started banging heads in some distant village, Overdog Enterprises rode across the wastes to protect them.
It was a perfect system, proven by the bounty before the great warlords. Roasted beef, spiced with herbs and sauces, was the envy of the wasteland. Its salty scent hung in the air, inviting and warm, like a campfire on a cold desert night. The great slab of meat was surrounded by a cornucopia of vegetables: corns and carrots and beats. Dishes of sweet plums and apples circled around, and a great loaf of bread sat beside the beef slab, chunks removed by greedy hands. Slaves and wanderers and scavengers of the wastes could only imagine the massive feast, or remember the mouth-watering foods they once knew.
"There's the boy!" Snake shouted from the far end of the table, a great comfy chair being used as a throne. The room was lit by candles, if only for warmth and for mood, even though electric lights were in the ceiling above.
The highwaymen cheered at his approach. There were maybe a dozen, and some seats were empty. They passed around bottles of ale and whiskey and even wine. Some preferred the moonshine they brewed themselves. Whatever they drank, it burned their tongues and made them dizzy and it didn't hydrate them in the slightest.
They had stripped themselves of their armor, a symbol of their delicate trust in the warlord who led them to such great things. That trust was not so great that they left their weapons at the door. In fact, each highwayman carried three or four guns, and countless blades hidden in their clothing.
Warcry's crutch tapped against the checkered floor but nobody made a comment about it, knowing that the last man who did had died miserably. He feigned a smile and took a swig of moonshine, and sat beside his father. He was ravenous, and didn't bother with a fork and knife when a slave delivered a plate of beef before him. That made his father smile.
There were slaves serving, of course, and until the highwaymen got drunker they would be basically invisible. They were attentive young women who had been given the honor of serving in the palace rather than in the brothel or the factory. As the night wore on, some of the highwaymen dragged those waitress slaves onto their laps and started tugging at their humble rags.
Snake, already half-drunk (a feat for someone his size) wrapped a meaty hand onto his son's shoulder. "Did I tell you?" he asked, leaning in too close and drenching the poor boy in boozed breath. "I killed a dragon today. Well, it wasn't an actual dragon. But it looked like one."
"It was a helicopter!" one of the other men shouted from across the table. "Don't be a liar."
"I'm telling the story, asshole," Snake shouted back, less jokingly than his compatriot. "It was this big chopper, right? And I was pissed that I couldn't take it, but, you know, they were shooting at us. So, I have my men rig a catapult, and they launch me up, and I put a knife in the pilot. Right. Through. The. Glass."
"Liar!" that same highwayman shouted over the drunken laughter. "You shot the bastard. Sniped him like a pussy."
Snake's smile faded, and the highwayman seemed to realize the mistake he had made.
"God, I hate being interrupted."
Crack! went the pistol. Snake barely even realized he had drawn his gun, but the smoke and heat curling off the barrel was unmistakably. The highwayman fell slump in his seat. Slaves shrieked in surprise, and one dropped a platter of food all over the floor. She covered her mouth in fear, wondering if the next bullet was for her.
