James washed his hands in the stained sink. Checking them a final time, he shook them thy, spattering droplets on the cloudy minor. He skeptically surveyed his reflection. His hair was black and shiny like cheap vinyl, gathered by a leather band into a braid that flowed over his shoulder. In honor of his totem, the braid had been dyed with horizontal stripes to resemble a raccoon’s tail. Slowly turning his head, James eyed his slightly hooked nose. His nose and dark completion marked him as having Indian blood. However, his receding hairline bespoke Anglo genes as well. He rubbed his eyes and groaned deeply. Without looking James reached up and yanked the chain hanging from the bare light bulb.
He turned away from the sink and removed his buckskin coat from a hook nailed to the wall. Dust fell from the aged coat as he lifted it. The rough leather seemed to pick up dust like a magnet. He shook it roughly, scattering more crap into the air. He slipped on the coat, buttoning the polished bone buttons. The coat was a relic from a dead age. Its intricate beadwork was dulled and worn from years of weather and wear. The coat had been a gift to his grandfather from his Ute wife. She had toiled for years on a reservation before the soft-spoken sociologist had swept her away with gifts and promises. Working secretly for months, James’ grandmother had made the coat from native materials and had presented it to her husband on their tenth anniversary. Peter Broussard had worn the coat as a badge of his love for her. When Peter’s son, Paul, had turned sixteen he was given the coat. Paul, in turn had passed it to James when he had turned sixteen.
That was nineteen years ago and the world had changed since then. James walked into the main room of his flat. The dim light threw shadows into the corners of the small room. A dust covered trideo screen sat on a shelf cluttered with burned-out fetishes. Mixed in with the useless tokens were several empty cred sticks. With the rent due soon, James had to lay his hands on some quick nuyen. Otherwise, he would be out on the streets, just another squatter. James dreaded that, Seattle wasn’t very kind to its poor. He made his way to a squat, synthwood dresser and slid open the top drawer. Two pistols were tucked under a pile of rumpled underwear. James picked up one and weighed it in his hand. The Ruger had never felt quite right to him. Sighing, he stuffed the gun into the waist band of his baggy trousers. James gently picked up the other pistol. It was nestled in a holster with magical symbols carved into the soft leather. He slid the smooth grip into his palm and tightened his fist. A smile passed across his face. The Predator had always seemed like a natural extension of his arm. After checking the clip, James thumbed on the safety and deposited the weapon back into its holster. He snapped the holster on its mounting clips inside his weather beaten coat. James smoothed out the line of his jacket and headed for the door.
As he keyed the lock with his thumb he stopped short. Reaching up, he removed his war club from its roost above the door. He strode out into the grimy hallway and hung the club on his belt as the door closed with an audible thud. The hall reeked of mildew and sweat. The deep shadows hid ragged transients sleeping in smelly heaps. James shook his head as he stepped over a particularly dirty hobo whose bulk had spilled into the center of the corridor. The dregs piled up in the halls on the coldest day no matter what the landlord did. James’ face hardened as he moved closer to the tenement’s front door. As he pushed the door open his face darkened with a look of intensity. He was no longer James Broussard. The people in the shadows knew him as Bishop Fuzz, magic muscle for hire. He pulled the supple coat closer to his thick frame and scrambled down the cold, stone steps. The Barrens were just starting to come to life in the early dusk. Fuzz passed a group of people wearing cheap, synthleather outfits. They gave him a wide berth as he mumbled under his breath.
Watching him as he passed, the punks whispered carefully to keep Fuzz from hearing. “There’s that crazy shaman again,” one remarked, “I seen him roast a1hole go-go gang without batting an eye, chummer.”
