Ragnar
the Red popped his head up and
ducked right back down, a shot from
Machine Ranger’s rotary cannons just
zinging off his Viking helmet. “He’s
coming for us! I’ll rush him!”
ducked right back down, a shot from
Machine Ranger’s rotary cannons just
zinging off his Viking helmet. “He’s
coming for us! I’ll rush him!”
“No!
Just hold yer horses, Red.”
The cowboy stole his own peek, and was
also forced back down by a hail of gunfire.
“New kid … Powder
Keg … you’re up. You’re
here for a tryout; you did
a real good job blowing up the bank―but
how do you handle
yourself in a fight, boy?”
“Actually,
I handle myself pretty good in a fight.” He stood
the collar up on
his black leather jacket, then ran his
fingers through his greaser
pompadour.
“You
do?” Ragnar chuckled. “Good. Because I hear the
Machine Ranger
can handle himself,
too. Well … have at
him.”
“Just
watch out for his guns,” The Rustler said. “All of
his
guns.”
“Thanks
for the advice,” Powder Keg said, his accent thick
with Brooklyn.
“I’ll follow it if you can, alright?”
“Danged
kids these days,” The Rustler said. “Everybody’s a
wise-acre.”
“Indeed,”
the Viking agreed. “Everybody is.”
###
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