Conversation · Scab Leader

"Big mess. Caused by Union greed." He shoots you a wary, distrustful look. "But I only fight for the rights of people."

"Routine. Part of the investigation."

"Am I a suspect?" His eyes narrow. "Done no crimes. I only fight for the rights of people."

"Who are all these strikebreakers?" (Look around.)

"Honest men and women. With rights -- to work. To be useful. Not toys for corporate interests." The man runs a hand through his steadily graying military haircut.

"We came here to help the harbour run smoothly in time of crisis. If Union fucks don't want work, they ought let in those WHO DO WANT WORK."

"I have a question." The lieutenant looks him in the eye. "Why do all these men follow your leadership?"

Now that is interesting.

"You think they follow because I'm big and loud? No, they follow the rules of the market. The rules of the economy. Because they were --" he starts bellowing, "-- GIVEN A JOB TO DO."

You've been talking to him for quite a while now -- something is off with this guy. Ask him where he's from.

"I need you to be my champion against Jean-Luc up there."

"No." He slowly shakes his head. "I'm not a fighter -- I'm a WORKER!"

"What is a strike?"

"When a bunch of ungrateful, lazy cockroaches can't get their act together. Decide to block honest work for other people." He shifts uncomfortably in his worker's overalls.

"What do the strikers want?"

"Beats me. They mumble nonsense about board rooms and workers' rights. While we --" he raises his fist and starts shouting again, "-- HAVE THE RIGHT TO WORK!"

When the man moves around, you perceive some serious abs underneath his tight-fitting shirt. This man is in shape.

There's something odd in the way he carries himself. His set of clothing looks vaguely mismatched. The different pieces of the attire seem ill-fitting.

Ignore the discrepancy.

Fine. It was probably nothing.

As he does, he stomps his foot on the pavement and... stop everything! Look at that sweet pair of boots on his feet! They would absolutely complement your soul, would let your style fly even higher!

Don't care. I already have boots of my own, thank you.

The burly man has a set of not-very-sweet-nor-impressive boots protruding out from under the baggy, hanging folds. They are of little interest to you.

Sweet boots? I require details.

Boots -- black in colour, crafted of hardened leather, if you had to guess. They look sturdy and stable, useful in rugged environments.

Imagine what you could do with boots like this. Not be a little fuckin' weakling baby, for starters. There are boots for mewling and there are boots for smashing shit.

Damn, you're right. Super sweet. Where can I get in on this bad-ass boot fashion?

Ask the man. Ask around. The doors of good taste are open to you. Be in vogue.

"Those are some sweet boots. Can I have them?"

"No."

"Come on, why not?"

"Establishment hasn't had its fill, is that right? First they obstruct our work, then they come for our shoes."

"Okay okay, I got it. None of this rob the poor stuff."

"That's what they always say, before stabbing you in the back. You want boots? Go find your own."

"I'm hardly the establishment."

"Oh, okay, whatever. Too much of a hassle."

The physically impressive man-tower has turned his attention back to the gates. He ignores your presence.

"I mean, where did you get them? I would like a pair of my own."

"Around." He shifts his gaze away. "Eminent Domain. Previous... workplace."

"Well shit. I'll have to check around then. Maybe there's a boot store around."

"You do that."

If only I had boots like this, I could stomp many things. Got a problem, punk? Eat my boot.

Get your daily infusion of vitamin PB -- for Police Brutality. Makes you feel like a boss. The man in charge.

I don't really care what either of you think. I'm a cool-ass bitch, baby. You can't fake stardom.

I stand corrected.

Prissy milksop. Get back to me when you've grown a backbone!

It's just a pair of boots. Who cares?

Never thought you so spineless. Where's your wrecking ball spirit, your brutal mojo?

I don't think the boots really fit my style. They look militant and uncomfortable.

Geez, live a little. At least give things a try. It's just boots. A set of sweet, stylish boots.

Ill-fitting... what does that mean?

His shirt is far too small and an unpleasantly tight fit. While the overalls, held up by a belt, seem to fit a man with much more corpulence.

"You wearing new clothes?"

He ignores your question, choosing instead to turn to the emaciated workers -- raising both fists in the air. The clothes are obviously not his.

Silence is the answer. There's something off here but he won't say what.

"How come you're built like a brick shit-house, but the other scabs are so scrawny?"

"I work hard." His voice booms ever louder: "And I would work even harder -- if the fuckers would LET US WORK!"

I don't want to ask that.

Yes. Of course.

"I want to get into the harbour too."