Early one afternoon a trio of Harleys come roaring into Tims parkinglot. The three men are wearing matching Outlaw jackets, emblazoned with their new symbol. A large skull holding a grenade in his teeth.

One man, obviously the leader calls the shots outside.

'Newbie you guard the bikes, Your with me.' He says pointing to the other man. They are both new to the club, falling in under Max's newfound leadership.

Max and the other biker head into the store...

The old woman on the porch doesn't greet them. She just silently sits there, rocking her chair, a sentinal to the world passing her by. When they go inside, they will be eagerly greeted by Mary Jo. She is in fine form tonight, a two sizes too small, blue halter top purchased from the juniors department. Her dun-lap stomach hangs out over her tiny white running shorts; which show off her tiny bird legs. Also gotten from the juniors department. Mary Jo is no junior, she's 45 and it shows. Years of heavy smoking hasn't helped any. Her badly bleached her is curled and teased into a big, out dated 80's hairdo. Her make-up is equally as bad, heavy blue eye shadow and bright pink lips. She smiles a snaggle tooth grin.
"Hello boys," she adjusts her heaving bosom right infrnt of them, with a playful wink. "Welcome to 'my' general store. What can I do for you boys?"

They will seen a rustic wooden sign with the word guns and an arrow burned into it hanging above the entry way to the gun store.

Max gives the woman a curios once over and maintains his gruff expression. Hes seen far worse, bike hags are among the crustiest chicks in the world. Especially when they get older...

'You dont look like a Tim to me. We need to speak to the proprietor of this fine establishment.'

The other biker goes about wandering the store, mostly checking for other customers or employees.

Tim wanders in from outside, wiping oil from his hand off onto a red mechanics rag. He stops seeing the bikers, rolling his eyes as Mary Jo flirts with them.
"Sirs, if you'll come this way. My name is Tim," he says loud enough to interupt Mary Jo. She sighs, throwing her hand above her head in expression of exasperation. He heads into the gun bunker and over to a large steel sing hidden behind an old ratty curtain. He washes his hands off. He glances over his shoulder at the bikers.
"What can I do ya'll for today?"

'Im just looking to ask you a favor Tim, thats all.'

Max begins, leaning against the counter. His associate wanders around and pretty much tries to touch every shiny gun in sight.

'I had a large collection of fine firearms stolen from me recently and i just want to make sure they havent turned up here, and if they do, its well worth your while to give me a call...'

Tim watches Max's acossiates closely. He doesn't like people messing with the merchandize. He looks to Max, a tool worn hand running over his beard.
"Well, I ain't got no new inventory in a long time. But, if I do happen to come across your guns, I will give you a call. I like to run a reputable business here, ya understand? Wouldn't do me no good to have stolen firearms on the premises, now would it?"
He slides over a slightly dirty notepad and equally as dirty pen. He's a part time mechanic and car grease and dirty gets everywhere. It clings to your skin and clothes, leaving that unmistakable smell upon you.

'Your a good man Tim. Im glad to hear that...'

Maxs eyes sweep back and forth. He casts a nod at his associate and the man stops his inspection and heads outside.

'A few of my boys will be by later this week for some supplies. If anything turns up you just give me a call.'

Max writes down the number for the clubhouse as well as a few gun models; Mostly ex-soviet surplus.  

--Last edited by Radiationjunkie on 2008-10-23 20:12:43 --

He looks over the paper and nods to the man.
"Sure thing, ya'll have a nice evening."
He nods again and moves toward the back of the bunker, setting the paper on a corkboard with a push pin.