Sample from \"Hammers and Nails\"
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North American (General) North American (US General American - GenAM)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the laughing stopped. Listen up, you rubes. My name is Wild Bill McClintock and you're gonna tell me what I want to know, or I'm gonna punch holes through all of your ******* faces. The nickel plated pistols sent flashes of reflected light dancing across the sea of faces as he spun them in his hands and sent them home to their holsters with a satisfying slap of steel on leather. A voice from behind the bar spoke. It sounded gruff, gravelly and not particularly impressed with the gun slinger. Well, my name is Marty Mud, and nobody here gives a flying **** whether you're looking for Tank or your mama's lost virtue. The crowd parted, still chuckling, and Bill McClintock got his first look at Marty Mud. Specifically, he got a look at Marty's shotgun, the large one, the one that was pointed at his face. It was the same one that was being held with rock solid stillness by a four year veteran of the Planetary Expeditionary Force. With two tours in the Benussi in succession, Wild Bill instantly regretted returning his pistols to their holsters if they had been in his hands. Still, he could have dropped the grizzled bartender with a hip shot. His press point implant made his aim nearly infallible, but something about the perfect, unwavering silence of the enormous weapon pointed at him made him pause. McClintock was a very fast draw, but the look in the bartender's I was sending a clear signal, and the message was, Go for it, buddy, Make my day. Bill chose discretion over valor and touched a hand to the brim of his hat. Have it your way, rubes. Just make sure you let that big, bold ******* No, I'm looking for him. The ******* crowd laughed at him again. The bartender winked at the bounty hunter and shook his head. I think he knows Buddy Wild Bill's scowled and looked over the crowd again. Something was wrong there, smug faces contorted with restrained Murtha's if they all knew something obvious that he did not. The shotgun dipped, and the ugly man behind the bar shook his head in McLintock like he was a simple child who did not understand how the world worked. Joke's on you, *******. This was the lapse. Bill had been waiting for his hands returned to the butts of his pistols faster than a man could blink, and his bionic eyes were marking targets for each one before they cleared the holsters. An example was about to be made. That much was clear, but then something went wrong. Somebody must have gotten behind him and hit him with a club because an explosion of pain erupted from the base of his skull and pitched him forward, spoiling his draw. Wild Bill's spun trying to paint the target with his eyes to direct the pistols and dispatch the sneaky *******. But the bionic orbs found no assailant, just a field of black writhing shadow closing in on him from behind, obscuring his vision and confusing the sophisticated scanners that served for his eyes. He fired twice into whatever it was, but this achieved nothing. Another flash of pain lit up his forehead and snapped him backwards. His legs got tangled in a chair, and wild Bill McClintock fell to his *** and arriving heap, his long coat so elegant and artfully badass, wrapped around his legs, and he kicked spastic Lee to clear his boots from the tangle of sturdy leather so he could rise to face the threat. A massive foot thundered onto the tales of the coat and pinned the bounty hunter to the floor. Bill didn't waste time worrying about it and simply emptied his pistols upward and into the owner of that boot at point blank range. The pistols were not the sort of things normal hoods might carry. Dragoons were novelty weapons, conspicuously large and powerful. Most people needed augmented strength simply to handle the heat in the recoil from the big guns. But if you could take it, the eight millimeters slug throwers were about his nastiest sidearms one could find for putting the punishment down. The explosions of light and showers of sparks is each ceramic projectile struck and shattered against whoever was attacking him, blinded Bill and obscured the features of his target. Bill didn't care. 15 direct hits later, and both guns clicked home on empty chambers. Wild Bill noted with no small quantity of dismay that the boot trapping his coat had not moved. The haze of gun smoke parted like a billowing grey curtain, and a large bald head pushed through the fog. The head wore a pug nose and an oppressive slab of a jaw. Small black eyes sat and deep Hollows under a heavy brow, which scrunched and furrowed an obvious irritation. The face stopped mere inches from Bill's beady black eyes met glowing orange bionic eyes. A pregnant pause followed than a voice like thunder growled a single syllable. Oh, uh!