"Have fun." He snorts. "Union shits are on full strike. Don't think they're going to let you through the gates. You trying to meet their fat boss?"
"Have fun." He snorts. "Union shits are on full strike. Don't think they're going to let you through the gates. Why you want to meet that fat asshole?"
"I'm interviewing people about a murder that took place here. Behind the hostel-cafeteria there."
The mention of a killing sends a barely noticeable shiver of tenseness through him. Interesting...
"RIGHT TO WORK!" He again shakes his large fist, then turns back to you. "It's shameful, cops doing nothing. You should bring backup, open the gates for us. Blockading gainful employment for workers is a crime."
He nods. "You go, take the bastards down a peg or two. Squeeze them a little. Show them the rule of law." He bellows at the gates: "LET US WORK!"
He nods. "You go take the bastards down a peg or two. Squeeze them a little. Show them the rule of law." He bellows at the gates: "LET US WORK!"
"You don't have any tips on how to punch a guy out, do you? Say, a really big race-theorist guarding a button?"
He smirks. "Not before you get in there and get your ass whooped. Learn by failure, I always say."
He might have some advice, but you gotta at least try to fight Measurehead first. Return if you fail.
"We were promised work." He points to the gates. "We'd be in there -- WORKING -- if the bastards hadn't shut the gates."
"Main gate's locked -- would take heavy ordnance to bust it open. Could try to get in through the secretary's office." He points up the stairs. "Door's locked. The guard's blocking the way to the access panel."
"And I don't mean the scrawny Mesque punk either." He points at the dockworker idling on the staircase. "I mean Head-Measurer -- or whatever he is."
"Don't mean the scrawny mesque punk." He points at Mañana, who smiles and waves at you. "I mean Head-Measurer -- or whatever he is."
"Why don't you go arrest them instead? I'm sure they've done plenty of criminal shit, they have that look."
"It would be better -- for the neighbourhood -- if you went home. At least for now. If you can't get in anyway."
"No. They will give up eventually. Or get drunk. Leave the button unguarded. Then we charge." The man rubs his jaw -- a perfect, lightly bearded square wedge.
He seems to be following his orders well enough for now -- but beneath it all there is a boiling rage. And a dangerous carelessness.
Do not be fooled by the programming. There is a precarious balance inside him, keeping him in check. But it's shaky as hell. And he's tired of it all...
"Wait. They might go home eventually. Or get drunk. Leave the access panel unguarded. Or the company sends someone to reason with them..."
"Unexpected situation. But we hold the pressure on, until someone makes a mistake. Then it's our time, we strike." The man rubs his jaw -- a lightly bearded square wedge.
"Wait, you can't get by Measurehead? But I got by Measurehead. I kicked him in the face."
"Yeah, I saw your ballerina moves up there." The man spits out a yellow clot. "In a real fight these acrobatics will get you killed faster than a bullet."
"You caught him off guard -- that only happens once. Now he's alert, standing on a narrow bridge and my men are tired and hungry..."
"You caught him off guard -- that only happens once, even if you got him twice or whatever. Now he's alert, standing on a narrow bridge and my men are tired and hungry..."
"Like civilized folk, you mean?" The man rubs his chin. "These native fucks don't understand civilized."
"Huge Semenese guy standing up there on the overhead passage. Won't let anyone by. The access panel is right behind him."
"Yeah, the giant on the bridge that kicked your ass -- Head-Measurer. Won't let the workers by. The access panel is right behind him."
"Yeah, that giant up there on the bridge you talked to -- Head-Measurer. Won't let the workers by. The access panel is right behind him."
"Bad." The man glares at you. "Standing on a narrow bridge, he's got a strategically advantageous position. And he's trained."
"I don't know how the Union has a trained killer up there, but that one's no joke. And my men are tired. And hungry. They're WORKERS, not fighters."
"They were on the body of the man who was hanged behind the cafeteria there." (Give him the photo.)
Silence. He takes the photo. Grey eyes dart back and forth on the glossy surface -- his face is unmoving.
After a while, he cranes his head side-to-side and sighs: "Fucking loincloths really did him in."
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