Welcome to Librarium Online!
Join our community of 80,000+ members and take part in the number one resource for Warhammer and Warhammer 40K discussion!
Registering gives you full access to take part in discussions, upload pictures, contact other members and search everything!
I'm not a very good writer, it's just a bit of fun. I'll move it to fiction when I've written the second part.
Fat Slann's Grand Slam
Jack the Rat kept his ratling gun hidden under his trench coat. His beady Skaven eyes scanned the entrance to the club – a back alley dive manned by two hulking Kroxigor in black suits. One of them kept talking into his earpiece, although ‘talking’ was perhaps being a little generous to the scaly brute:
“So…er…no rats to let in…right boss?”
He turned to the wall to reduce any distractions, bending slightly as he pushed the earpiece in further. After a moment he appeared to get the message, “Okay boss.” he said, turning back.
‘Dammit’ Jack thought to himself. It seemed that word had already spread to Fat Slann that a possible hit attempt was imminent; he had stepped up security. Usually the club was open to all types wanting a shot of whisky, a hand of poker and a good time. Now it appeared only those who bore scales were being permitted entry. Frustrated, Jack turned tail and headed toward a more familiar joint. He felt his tail move through something cold and wet – a puddle. Jack looked up from his trilby hat just in time for a raindrop to fall into his eye; he wrinkled his nose and shook it away.
The rain was steady by the time he reached the main road, and he quickly hailed a cab. The relative silence and warmth inside the vehicle felt pleasant, and Jack let out a sigh. The Dwarfen driver took a long drag on his cigarette and absently tossed it out of the window before winding it up. Without looking round he said
“Good evening boyle, and where will you be wanting to go?”
“The Dancing Pig”, Jack replied, gazing out the rain spattered window, and the cab pulled away.
The Dancing Pig was a small bar on the edge of town frequented mainly by Skaven, although it was not uncommon to see a Chaos Lord or a Vampire sat at the bar, drinking themselves into a stupor and draining the bar of it’s tomato juice supply. Live music was common and mainly consisted of Frank Sinatra and Bob Geldoff covers.
The cab pulled up outside and Jack paid the Dwarf. The rain was still steady so Jack scurried to the entrance, pulling his collar high around his neck. Once inside, the familiar smell of his usual watering hole filled his nostrils, and he breathed deeply. Handing his coat and trilby to the cloakroom assistant – a dark elf by the name of Sarah – he meandered over to the bar area, taking the time to note any familiar faces.
After an hour or so of drinking whisky, Jack started to focus on his task: He couldn’t go back to the Clan tonight without even an attempt on Fat Slann’s life. He needed to get into the club somehow. Force was an option, but if he didn’t dispatch the Kroxigor quickly then they would not give him a second chance. No, forcing his way into the club was too risky.
He downed his last glass of whisky and slammed it onto the bar with a resounding thud. After nodding his thanks to the Daemonette behind the bar he collected his coat and trilby and made for the door.
The rain outside had not subdued, and no cab was available. By the time Jack reached Fat Slann’s Grand Slam he was soaked through. He prayed the rain had not damaged his ratling gun too much – it was unreliable at the best of times.
Keeping out of sight of the Kroxigor, Jack watched the hunch back beggar hobble up to them. His clothes were tattered and torn and he reeked of cheap booze; even the bouncers turned their noses up in disgust, and Kroxigor were not the most sanitary of creatures. He wore a large overcoat with a hood that kept his features hidden. Flies buzzed in and around his face.
“Spare any change guv?” the beggar asked before exploding into a coughing fit.
“Move along please mate” one of the Kroxigor said, his head still turned slightly away from the man, “nothing to be found here”
“Oh play nice now,” the beggar said, taking a step forward. That was all the provocation the Kroxigor needed. Reaching for their great weapons they approached the beggar; he would be their entertainment tonight. After taking a few steps toward the tramp they stopped dead; they finally saw what he held in his hand. It was not a simple beggars bowl as they had assumed, but a poison globe. Looking back toward the man’s face they noticed to small dots of yellow pierce the gloom behind his hood.
The Globadier cackled and threw his hood back, revealing his gas mask. With a swift movement of his hand he threw the poison globe into the nearest Kroxigor’s face. The bouncer recoiled, hands clasped to his face, screaming in agony. The second bouncer got ready to swing his great weapon, but his adversary had the initiative. The Globadier leaped onto him, clawing, scratching and biting. Jack knew this was his chance. With the first Kroxigor still writhing on the ground and the other a little preoccupied, he made his way into the club. ‘It’s good to call on old favours,’ he smiled to himself.
The commotion outside had not yet reached the inside of the club, but it soon would. More bouncers would come, more than he could handle. He needed to find Fat Slann quickly. The club was positively opulent compared to his local Skaven bars. Skinks and Saurus sat side by side: sipping glasses of red wine, whisky or port whilst having a smoke and paying careful attention to the cards in their hand as well as the faces of their opponents. Lizardmen were notoriously good poker players, mainly due to their cold blood and unwavering ability to let any hint of emotion slip from their faces. Across the room, a female skink stood on the stage and sung into a microphone. An oldblood in sunglasses and suit accompanied her on piano. She was performing a cover of a Culture Club song, although the name of which momentarily escaped Jack. Anyway, this was not the time to be getting distracted, he scanned the room and noticed a door manned by two more Kroxigor; that must lead to Fat Slann, Jack thought.
Tightening his grip on his ratling gun, he made his way across the smoky club.
A fun little piece. Very unconventional, all the races existing in a more contemporary setting.
I think it's a hilarious conceit, turning fantasy into a gangster story.
Fat Slann is a great name, as is the name of the story.I got a kick out of this in particular.Live music was common and mainly consisted of Frank Sinatra and Bob Geldoff covers.
Are you going to write anymore?
Yes I think I will write out the second part. Although I'm not sure what's going to happen between Fat Slann and Jack the Rat yet!
Cheers for the feedback btw guys
Great story! I like the mix of warhammer fantasy and old gangster movie theme
This was a great read!! The stuff about the skink singing:
"A culture club song that he couldnt quite remember the name of"
had me rolling on the floor laughing.
Very good job, cant wait for the second half.
3. Marital Bliss 2. Military Intelligence 1. MICROSOFT WORKS
Vassal Record 1-2.